


Pocket Full of Shells

by LogosMinusPity



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Gangsters, Mafia AU, and therefore terrible people, but still endgame pharmercy, in which everyone is a mafiosa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2018-11-15 17:48:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11236095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LogosMinusPity/pseuds/LogosMinusPity
Summary: Mafia AU as inspired bySuperrisu. In a city split in half by a tenuous truce between the two remaining criminal families, Fareeha Amari find herself caught between the machinations of her mother, notorious arms dealer Ana Amari, and her rival and business partner, Dr. Angela Ziegler. Things evolve into an even more complicated scenario that what any of them could have expected.





	1. Chapter 1

“ _What_?” Fareeha’s voice cracked from the force of the word as it passed her lips.

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

Her unusual expression of vehement incredulity brought a sharp look of reproval from her mother, though, even if the bodyguards still in the room remained as impassive as ever.

Ana Amari had spent most of her adult life cultivating a stranglehold on the underground arms trade market, and even if her once jet black hair was now mostly gray and she rarely traveled internationally anymore, she was far from a woman to be trifled with.

Even by her own family.

“You heard me the first time, Fareeha. Starting next week, you’ll be working as a bodyguard for Angela Ziegler.”

Fareeha blinked dumbly for a long moment, still to register just _exactly how_ this deal had been made so clearly over her head and without her knowledge. Only when her mother swiveled in her chair and turned back toward her computer screen did Fareeha regain enough of her senses to react.

“You’ve got to be _kidding_! You’re having me, your only child, go personally work for the Angel of Death of herself? As a bodyguard?!”

This time, Ana’s one good eye flashed in anger, but Fareeha had long since grown up from being the child who would blindly follow her mother’s commands...or a fearful thug like the rest of the gangsters in the Amari employ. But Ana tolerated questioning from no one, least of all when her own bodyguards were still present to witness it. Ana turned to face Fareeha fully, who still stood in the middle of her mother’s high rise office. She motioned her finger once toward her own bodyguard at the door, and uttered a single phrase.

“Leave us.”

Only when the door had fully closed behind them did Ana unleash her vitriol.

“You may be the blood of my blood, daughter, but you do _not_ question my decisions in front of others.”

Anger bubbled up in Fareeha’s chest, and her hands clenched into fists. Too often as of late she and her mother had been at odds with one another, and it made it all to easy to snap back.

“Then maybe you should let me know why exactly you’re making decisions about me without even consulting me first! Especially since you’re apparently shipping me off to our rivals. And as a _bodyguard_?!”

“You’re a more than capable bodyguard, Fareeha, even if that’s not been what you envisioned for yourself as of late.”

Fareeha opened her mouth for a second, stronger retort when her mother cut her off, sounding less angry now and more annoyed than anything else.

“Oh, stop with the impotent outrage already for a moment. And Dr. Ziegler’s group is our business partner.” Ana’s lips twisted at that last bit, testament to her true thoughts.

Not that it was a lie, though. The respective heads of the Ziegler and Amari mafias had long since made a straightforward if sometimes shaky business deal between the two of them. Ana continued to run her arms business, and Ziegler provided their biotechnology and drug synthesis expertise to stimulate the flow of new bioweapons and similar goods...which the Amaris then peddled. It was a truce that worked for both sides, and had been working for the better portion of the last decade.

After all of the prior bloodshed that had painted the streets when the Shimadas had been expunged...well…

Not that Fareeha had actually been around during that period. She had been living abroad at the time, working one of her first major operations for her mother in Chechnya. But she’d heard enough tales of the events to know that any alliance with the notorious and young leader of the Zieglers was not to be viewed with anything less than wary suspicion.

Which made her mother’s most recent order and proclamation all the more confusing.

“So...you’re just sending me off. As a bodyguard for her employ. That’s what the whole big meeting you had with her this morning was about? I thought you were going to be expanding our enterprises with her or something!”

Ana slammed her palm down on her desk this time, her irritation now threatening to dip back into anger again. “Listen to me, you foolish child of mine: I _am_ thinking of our enterprises...and where they may or may not be by the time you’re capable enough of taking things over. If that ever actually happens…”

Fareeha stuck her chin out at the mumbled insult, but her mother continued, unfazed, but strangely pensive.

“Peace...peace doesn’t last forever, Fareeha. Not in our world. Especially not in our. Ours is a nature that thrives on the profits of conflict. When it was the triad of families here still, there was peace, for a time. But people grow greedy. It’s human nature. The Shimadas grew greedy. They thought they saw an opportunity, but it was a trap for their demise, and now they’re a name that people only dare to whisper for fear of ghosts. They gambled and lost, and we’ve had over a decade of shaky peace since then. But…”

When her mother trailed off, Fareeha finally prompted. “But?”

Ana frowned “I don’t _trust_ her, Fareeha. And you shouldn’t either. Even with the Shimadas rightfully out of the picture now, it’s an uneasy truce between us. I can’t believe that that woman will be content keeping to her area of the black market. _We_ certainly can’t be content with being boxed in, should the tides change.”

Now it was Fareeha’s turn to frown, uncertain of just what her mother intended. Not all out war, no...so just what…?

“As a bodyguard for her, you will work in the closest proximity to one of the two women in this city who make the wheels turn.” The other being Ana herself, as it went without saying. “You will see far more of her operations, her organization, of _her_ than what she allows us to normally see.”

Fareeha’s vision was briefly obscured by the memory of a women with eerily piercing blue eyes and a smile that was both gentle and yet gut-wrenchingly terrifying at the same time. She had not been upset earlier to have missed the morning meeting between her mother and the Angel of Death, no...even if now she was chagrined to have missed such critical talks that involved her own person.

Then her mother’s words fully struck her in implication.

“You want...me to spy?”

Ana’s lips thinned at the word. “Nothing quite so crude. Watch. Listen. Be _aware_. Learn. And know. That is what I want from you.”

“Surely she has to be suspicious herself, though? No matter how strong her organization is now? Why—”

Fareeha suddenly reeled and the question died on her lips before she could even voice it. In a moment of clarity, she understood just how two-sided the agreement was...just _why_ the so-called Angel of Death would have agreed to such deal. If Ana had the benefit of having Fareeha at Ziegler’s side to spy, so too did Ziegler have the advantage of having Ana’s only living heir underneath her thumb should things go south.

Fareeha swallowed, the fire now taken out from her belly.

Her own mother had potentially just thrown her to the wolves.

Why was she even surprised?

She bowed and finished up the conversation mechanically, Ana now clearly pleased that there was no more pushback coming from her daughter. Fareeha ran a hand through her hair as she rode the mirrored elevator back down to the lobby, and then glanced at her watch. It was barely afternoon.

Fuck, but she needed to get drunk. And now.

* * *

Every organization had its own fronts, its own offices of operations—both official and less...official—from which they worked. Salons, spas, restaurants, bars. Depending on the type of business you dabbled in, you had different haunts.

The Angel of Death was a bit different than the bars and warehouses that the Amaris typically worked out of. Angela Ziegler had a much more public front. Hospitals and biomedical research labs were the heart of her public appearance, and it was standing in front of one such pharmaceutical research building that Fareeha found herself.

There had been no sense to any sort of massive, formal ‘trade off’ of Fareeha from her mother’s hands and into Ziegler’s. More people meant more security questions, more things that could possibly go wrong.

No, as little fanfare as possible made the most sense, considering everything had been agreed upon beforehand. And honestly, Fareeha preferred it this way. If Ziegler was to doublecross and kill her as soon as she stepped foot in the building...well...

Fareeha still frowned beneath her motorcycle helmet as she pushed out the kickstand on her bike before dismounting. This was the address she had been instructed to show up to, and she was even an entire five minutes early.

She sighed once, pulled out her current burn phone and texted her mother’s number to inform that she had arrived, and then stowed her helmet on the back of her bike before walking into the multistoried building.

Her eyes automatically scoped the lobby: corners, guards, elevators, emergency exits. No one was obviously armed, but Fareeha had no doubts that even the lobby level guards here were carrying.

She walked up to the receptionist’s desk, running a hand through her hair once, and quietly taking notice of the eyes from the guards that now focused on her.

“Here to see Angela Ziegler.”

The woman looked up her, eyes shifting almost imperceptibly to Fareeha’s facial tattoo before giving a single, professional nod. “Dr. Ziegler will be expecting you in her office suite on the top floor. Take the middle elevator up.”

She pressed a few buttons behind the desk, and then the metal doors to said elevator dinged and opened, and Fareeha saw a man in a suit—his coat bulging just enough to indicate the holster and guns he wore—waiting for her.

Fareeha flashed a smile as her thanks before taking long, confident strides to the elevator. The guard in the lift grunted at her once, and then hit the button to the top floor. Immediately, they lurched upward, the elevator thrumming as they ascended in silence through all the floors of regular labs and cubicles, until they stopped at the top.

The elevator opened into the foyer of a penthouse-like office, two closed and double doors flanked by two more guards, one of who openly carried an automatic rifle. When they stepped forward, Fareeha stopped short.

One of them held up his hand to explain first. “Weapons and electonics. We’ll pat you anyway so just make this easier for everyone.”

Fareeha sighed, and then pulled out her hidden pistol and two knives along with her burner phone before resignedly submitting to the pat down. Which of course came back clean at that point. There was no reason in trying to conceal any weapons at this stage unless she actually wanted to die.

Content that she was now not an apparent threat, one of the guards knocked first on the door, and then opened it and led Fareeha in. Fareeha walked up to stand in the center of the room, unmoving, staring down the bridge of her nose at the notorious Angel of Death herself, Angela Ziegler.

It had been years since Fareeha had last even glimpsed her mother’s main rival and business partner in person, but time hadn’t dulled the vivid memory in Fareeha’s mind. No different than before, Dr. Angela Ziegler was physically striking, easily drawing attention to herself. Even though she had to be closer to forty than thirty, her body was impeccably cared for. Her skin was pale as cream without the faintest hint of wrinkles, her blond hair perfectly styled, the nails holding her thin, black cigar manicured and smooth. There were no signs of hardship or underground war, not like what Ana’s missing eye was testament to. No, Angela Ziegler oozed a sort of aristocratic ease to her. The way she sat in her dark leather chair, how her white Armani suit fit her as comfortably as a second skin…

Whereas Ana kept the necessary trappings of power around her to prove her strength, there was a certain unrestrained violence about it, as if no amount of money and wealth could hide the nature of what Ana was and her profession. But perhaps that as simply the reality of being an arms dealer.

It was not to say, however, that Angela Ziegler did not seem dangerous. Oh, no. Only a fool would think that.

There was something coiled and threatening about the ease with which she relaxed in her chair, and when her blue eyes pinned Fareeha’s gaze, Fareeha could easily believe that this woman wielded enough power to take lives as easily as she would tap the spent ash from the tip of her cigar.

Indeed, only fools underestimated this woman. And most of them were no longer alive to correct their mistakes. Meeting her gaze now, in the heart of Ziegler’s own territory, the urge to fidget and move was nearly overwhelming.

What did the Angel of Death see when she looked at her? What cogs turned behind her veiled mind at this strange deal struck between her and Fareeha’s mother in the form a person? Did she have doubts? Almost certainly. But did she have second guesses?

She might as well be a sphinx for all that her face revealed. Beautiful but cold, only the faintest hint of curiosity showing through. Fareeha did not miss the thick folder that Ziegler held in one hand. No doubt files on Fareeha herself.

Fareeha forced herself to a semblance of ease and uncaring, to stare back unaffected by the growing and strained roar of silence between them.

Then…

“You have quite the poker face, Fareeha Amari.”

Fareeha allowed the smallest of appropriate smiles at that. “When I want to, yes.”

No one made it far in the less than legal side of the world if they wore their emotions on their sleeve.

Ziegler set the folder down with a slow but deliberate motion. She raised one eyebrow, and then gave her trademark smile that she was so well known for: sweet, small, and seemingly innocuous. And that much more terrifying because no one ever knew what would come next.

Angela Ziegler leaned forward, resting her chin on both hands. “Now strip.”

Fareeha gaped, her composure lost before she could even think to regain it.

Ziegler didn’t even bat a lash, but lips twisted further upward at how she’d managed to gain the upper hand.

“Are you shy then? Not what I would have expected from Ana’s own. You can use the bathroom if you want first, of course.” Then any hint of mirth evaporated from Angela’s face. “Deal agreed upon or no, I take any new hires related to my own inner organization with utmost seriousness. You don’t get to suddenly be my bodyguard just because mommy and I have a multi million dollar arms and drugs deal. So it’s your choice. We can start things off the easy way, or the hard way.”

Fareeha sucked in a breath, tried to give off her best glare, and then reached for the belt and zipper of her jeans. Boots, socks, pants, jacket, shirt, undershirt...until she was standing in the now very air-conditioned center of Ziegler’s office in just her sports bra and her boxers, trying not to shiver at what had been the pleasant degree of cool only minutes earlier.

Her clothes lay in a discarded pile at her feet now.

For her part, the Angel of Death finally rose and walked around from her desk. Even with heels on, Ziegler was still noticeably shorter, and Fareeha fought the urge to raise an eyebrow at her as she came close. Now separated by a scant arms length, Fareeha could see the clinical, focused, and pointed way in which Dr. Ziegler now inspected her—quiet testament to her very degree as a doctor, and not just in name only.

Fareeha stayed as still as she could manage as Ziegler’s heels slowly clicked onto the floor and she walked a slow circle around her. Even if she hadn’t been placed specifically as a bodyguard before, Fareeha had spent many a sensitive operation on security details, and had made it a point to keep herself as physically fit as what the rigors of her profession might demand of her. She had nothing to physically hide.

Finally, Ziegler finished her circle to face Fareeha again. “Tattoos, then?”

Fareeha blinked once. There was the obvious one seated just beneath her right eye, the same _wadjet_ of Horus that her mother sported as well. In addition to that, she had a few others. One on a thigh, a half sleeve on either arm. Compared to most who worked in their area of business, Fareeha didn’t consider herself to have much inking, and so the question surprised her a bit.

“Are you surprised?” she countered. While her Eye of Horus clearly marked her mother’s heritage, the first nations tattoos on her sleeves were the unspoken memory of her father, something that everyone knew better than to speak of in front of Ana.

Ziegler shook her head though, carmine lips twisting for a moment as she exhaled another breath of smoke. “Tattoos are marks. They make you easy to identify and track.”

Bit late for that. Fareeha bit back the urge to say something pert. Last thing she needed was Ziegler already losing her patience with her. So instead she remained quiet until the Angel of Death frowned for a moment before huffing and turning toward the door.

“Tattoos...I hardly understand the desire to mark yourself…”

“You don’t have any?” Practically everyone Fareeha knew did. But then again, the Amaris worked a different area of the underworld than the Zieglers.

That earned a sharp look, no doubt for daring to inquire. Still, Ziegler answered, curt and cold. “No.”

And that was it.

Ziegler signalled to her own current duo of bodyguards who still remained at the door.

“Have the tailor come up and take her measurements. See that she gets properly outfitted.” She paused to point at the still discarded pile of clothes on the floor. “Burn that filth.”

“Hey! That’s one of my favorite jackets!”

Fareeha didn’t think before speaking this time, and the look Ziegler gave her could have curdled fresh milk.

“Please, Amari. Don’t act like you or your mother don’t have more than enough money to replace some jeans and a jacket whenever you want.”

“But that jacket’s all nice and worn in already!”

Ziegler’s lips grew thin at the argument, but Fareeha could recognize from the slight twitch of lips on the bodyguards that it was from impatience rather fury. Really though, it wasn’t like Fareeha had been given a detailed plan about what she was expected to wear.

After a moment, Ziegler rolled her eyes and conceded. “Fine. Keep it. I don’t want to see you wearing it when you report directly to me. Though I don’t care if you choose to wear it on your initial detail assignments.”

Score.

Wait.

“Assignments? I thought I was going to be guarding you, Ziegler.”

That had been the agreement. That was what her mother had said.

Angela Ziegler’s lips curled upward in what was more of a sneer than a smile. Fareeha felt suddenly and very exposed, much more so than even when first stripping off her clothes.

With a swiftness that was belied by her size and her heels, Ziegler was abruptly in her face, one perfectly manicured finger jabbing into her sternum. _Now_ she was undoubtedly angry.

“No one simply _receives_ the honor of being my personal guard. It is earned, and it is gained. And only through unquestioning loyalty.” Her blue eyes flashed with danger, practically daring Fareeha to bait her a third and final time. Fareeha knew better now than to test her luck again. Ziegler leaned in, and her face was like a porcelain doll: deceptively beautiful, and terrifyingly dangerous. Her voice dropped in pitch, nearly seductive as she hissed out the next words. “So tell me, Fareeha Amari...how will you show me _your_ loyalty?”

There was no answer to that that Angela Ziegler would accept, at least not that Fareeha knew; when she remained silent, Ziegler turned and strode back toward the door, which one of her guards immediately reopened for her. She paused only to half turn one she had fully stepped out of her own office.

“Oh, and you will refer to me as Dr. Ziegler or as ‘boss’. Understood?”

The door slammed closed behind her before Fareeha could even respond back. With Ziegler now gone, a single bead of sweat dripped down the back of Fareeha’s neck, and she blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of everything that had been said...and just all that hadn’t.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fareeha wakes up to her first day on the job for her new boss, Angela Ziegler, uncertain with just what exactly the Angel of Death has in store for her.

Fareeha woke to the sound of her morning alarm going off. She reached across her pillow and to the nightstand before finding the ‘off’ button on the digital alarm clock. After allowing herself a few more seconds of rest, she heaved herself out of bed.

A long stretch rewarded her with the satisfactory popping of a few joints, and as she yawned, Fareeha looked over what were her new living quarters while she was ‘working’ for the Angel of Death.

The location was fine. Nestled in a block of apartments that seemed to be mainly home to young professionals and people who were far too busy with their own lives to know or care about what their neighbors might or might not be doing for a living. Much easier that way. No questions asked.

As for the apartment itself, it was fairly plain. Not to say cheap, but filled with only the necessary essentials. That was fine by Fareeha, who’d never developed much of an attachment to any living space that she could ever remember in her life. ‘Home’ was wherever she went to sleep for the night—or the day depending on what the job was. She hardly imagined she would be spending that much more time in this new home than in any of her old ones.

Still, the bed had been comfy and the shower was hot with good water pressure. There were worse places to call home for the indefinite future. This place would do, and her mother at least seemed unperturbed for the time being, surprisingly so.

Fareeha thought back to the call she had made to her mother on a cruddy old payphone outside of a diner before bed (not that she believed for one second that her new employer was unaware of the correspondence, but she hadn’t yet felt comfortable making a call in a new apartment until she was certain it wasn’t bugged). Fareeha had been prepared for the anger and fury—the agreement had been for Fareeha to be _close_ to Ziegler, after all—and so she had braced herself. Yet, if anything, Ana Amari had been unsurprised. Fareeha could practically see her mother shrugging over the phone, accepting her daughter’s appointment as a grunt worker to her partner and rival. After that, the call had been clipped and short, and for a moment Fareeha gave a sour frown at the shower tiles as she recalled her mother’s instructions to just do whatever ‘damned job’ she was given and not to bother Ana with trivialities unless something had changed.

Typical.

Fareeha finished drying off and paused for a moment as she considered her clothes. She thought of her meeting the day before, and the tailor who had finally come to take her measurements, but she hadn’t heard anything afterward. She didn’t want to think on it too much, because thinking about meeting with the tailor meant thinking about meeting with the Angel of Death...and Fareeha did _not_ want to start thinking too much about Angela Ziegler of all people. Finally, she shrugged, ignoring the shiver that rippled over her skin, and tossed on her motorcycle leathers instead. After all, if she hadn’t been told otherwise…

The keys jingled in her hand as Fareeha walked toward the door, already planning where she would stop for coffee and a bagel, and then froze.

Slid beneath her door and into her apartment was a single, solitary piece of paper, facedown on the floor. Fareeha stared for a long second at the piece of paper before finally walking over and picking it up.

She rubbed her fingers over the cream-colored paper. It was the thick, expensive sort of notecard used for things like formal invitations to weddings...or funerals for that matter. Flipping it over, she found a note penned by hand in luxurious, curling blue ink that looked more like calligraphy than standard handwriting.

_Report to the Angel’s Garage today on 21st and 102nd for your assignment._

_~A. Ziegler_

Fareeha rolled her eyes at the note. Was this how all of her assignments were going to go? And since when did doctors of all people have _nice_ handwriting? If Ziegler had even penned it herself. What a flair for the dramatic.

She crumpled up the paper between her fingers and tossed it into the bin before leaving her apartment. There were no doubts in her mind that all of her trash would be shredded and burned anyway.

* * *

Angel’s Garage was an old concrete and brick car shop and garage, big enough to have its own backyard lot for car junking and processing. It was a rougher area of town, a scattering of auto repair shops and seedy diners intermixed with apartments that had seen their prime fifty years earlier. Not that Fareeha was concerned. Everyone with half a brain knew better than to even think of doing anything to anyone who showed up to Angel’s Garage, even if they were an unfamiliar face and were driving a custom modified Italian-imported motorcycle.

And even if anyone was stupid enough to try something...well.

Fareeha’s gun was tucked comfortably into the holster against her ribcage.

She drove her bike to the side of the building and parked it there, pocketing her keys. It was her first time coming to Angel’s Garage, but she knew the gist of it. The Amaris had similar venues, of course. Locations for fencing cars, trading stolen goods, working more grunt level operations out of. She idly wondered how many bodies had been disposed of in the miniature junkyard behind the garage.

A young and pimply teenager was at the front desk of the car service lobby, and when Fareeha walked in, his eyes widened to the size of dish saucers as he stared at her facial tattoo. Fareeha could have hissed with vexation, but instead she raised an eyebrow and waited the extra ten seconds for the boy to gather himself again and then point her toward the ‘Employees Only’ marked door. She nodded once, and then stepped into the back room.

An old, foldable table was set up near a mini kitchenette that reeked of burnt coffee, surrounded by men sitting in chairs and playing cards. Some version of poker, if Fareeha’s quick glance was right. Even though it wasn’t even mid-morning, the heavy smoke of cheap and dirty cigarettes hung over the table, mixed with the scent of car oil and grease to create the sort of smell that was entirely unique to garages like this one.

A few of the men wore the irreversible dirtied mechanic coveralls that marked their main job here at the garage, but it was easy to see that others were some of Ziegler’s bottom feeders for maintaining order in this part of town.

Normally one to eye-up everyone in a room, even Fareeha could be forgiven for her momentary lapse when her attention was drawn directly and firmly toward the literal biggest presence there.

On the far side of the table, somehow managing to sit in a foldable chair that had not yet buckled under his weight, was the single largest man Fareeha had ever seen in her life. He was huge, his shirtless torso easily showing the boar tattoos inked all over his stomach, and Fareeha had no doubt that, like a sumo wrestler, this enforcer was packed with layers of muscle beneath his girth.

As soon as the door swung closed behind her, both he and everyone else turned up to focus on her, the game of cards now completely forgotten.

And their gazes lingered on her tell-tale Amari tattoo.

It was already a hot day, and Fareeha could feel the sweat collecting on her neck. She only hoped that it wouldn’t be mistaken for fear. Groups like these would turn into jackals given the slightest chance. If they thought a newcomer was easy prey, they would pounce. Part of being assigned here, Fareeha had no doubt, was a measure of being tested.

Hadn’t Ana done the same to Fareeha so many years before, too?

Fareeha held her gaze, making herself relax. It didn’t take much. These were lower end members of the Ziegler operation. And _no one_ had anything on the weird brand of unnerving intimidation that Ziegler herself seemed to emanate.

Finally the tension broke.

A man slowly stood from around the far side of the table. Not the giant, no, but a small, nearly skeletal compatriot beside him. He too was shirtless, and errant grease stains were spattered across his bare skin. He crushed the remnants of his still embered cigarette into the overflowing tin ashtray in the center of the table, and then offered a broad, crooked grin.

“Well, well...wouldn’t have fully believed myself that we were actually getting Amari’s cute little daughter showing up to work for us here. Guess the boss really can perform miracles. Angel for a reason…”

Fareeha offered a grin back, well rehearsed and still acutely aware of every last person in the room should something happen to go wrong. “And here I am. Surprised?”

The man shrugged. “Can’t blame me. You can call me Junkrat. I head up most operations coming out of the Garage.” He offered out one nicotine and grease stained hand across the table.

Fareeha took it in a firm shake without even the faintest hint of hesitation. If this crew had the preconceived notion that she was going to be a pillow princess about things, that was the first thing that she needed to correct. Speaking of which, she wasn’t keen on continuing to stand in awkward silence.

“So what exactly are we doing here? Zie—the boss wasn’t exactly specific on directions. Just that I show up for work.”

The man called Junkrat cracked his neck and then yawned. “True, true...we should probably be on with things. Nothing big today. Can’t just start you on the big kids’ work without a baseline first.”

Part of Fareeha wanted to roll her eyes. Did they really think that her mother—that Ana Amari of all people—had pampered her? Fareeha couldn’t even remember just how long ago Ana had first thrown her into the world of underground operations her organization ran.

But new crowds and a new boss were expected to be accompanied by a new critical eye, and Fareeha knew that nothing would be gained for her by protesting right now.

 _First step to getting closer to Ziegler. You can do this_.

Junkrat, whom she was now certain ran the ‘business’ here, pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pants            pockets, and passed it over with a single phrase. “Time to collect on some loans.”

Fareeha glanced over the list quickly, the names and corresponding numbers meaning nothing to her. Not that she had expected any of them to. The loan shark business was some of the bread and butter of any respectable less than legal organization like the Amaris or like Ziegler, and the people who were dumb enough to keep coming back for more loans after gambling away their first bit were just part of how things worked.

She set the paper back down. “So are we collecting today or taking out the garbage?”

Sometimes you squeezed for more, getting money back, or confiscating property or items like a bank foreclosing on a mortgage that still had assets to give. And sometimes, when there was nothing of any meaningful value left to take, it meant disposing of the trash that could no longer pay.

Junkrat scratched his head and gave a theatrical sigh. “Depends on the person. Mostly collecting today, though. And we have a tidy list to get through, so let’s get going.”

He pushed himself up from his seat, the giant lumbering after him, and Fareeha then following after that when no one else moved to go. Guess it would just be the three of them. Cozy.

Junkrat and his extra man were waiting on the sidewalk out front, at which point Junkrat pointed with his thumb toward the nameless titan. “This is Roadhog, by the way. He doesn’t do much in the way of speaking, so don’t expect much.”

‘Roadhog’ gave a grunt, and Fareeha nodded back. She supposed that brute force didn’t need to be particularly well spoken.

Junkrat had pulled out a pack of cigarettes when Fareeha turned back to him, and was fishing one out.

“Got one to spare?”

It was a risk, asking for a concession like that, but Fareeha both wanted and needed to see the reaction. Junkrat stopped, brow drawing down in displeasure. Fareeha sweetened the deal by pulling out her own lighter.

“I’ve got a light for it.”

He grumbled about Fareeha owing him one, but still handed over a cigarette, and seemed placated enough when Fareeha showed the courtesy of lighting his up before her own. They stopped long enough to take a first drag from each of their cigs. It was cheap stuff, as expected, but the harsh burn of tobacco and nicotine and god knew what other foul chemicals against her lungs had a calming sort of familiarity to it.

She blew out a stream of smoke into the bright air. The summer heat was already building, and it wasn’t even afternoon yet. Time to get on with it.

Fareeha turned to Junkrat and his silent, giant companion.

“Shall we?” She gave a sardonic bow and gestured for Junkrat to lead the way.

She didn’t miss the way his lips twisted upward in a genuine smile that he only half managed to hide by turning away and starting to walk down the sidewalk. Fareeha didn’t bother to speak again until they’d walked a solid few blocks.

“So who’s first on the list for today?”

“Porgy.”

The answer was a low, ominous rumble from Roadhog...or maybe that was just always how he sounded. It was Junkrat who elaborated.

“First time taking out a loan with us. Chronic gambler, led to his wife and kids leaving him, but he keeps rolling the dice. He missed his first payment, but by all means he has the mean to pay.” Junkrat gave another crooked grin and then tossed aside the small remnant of his cigarette to the sidewalk, crushing it under one booted foot. Fareeha did the same a few steps later. “Don’t need to rough him up if we don’t have to yet, but he needs a reminder that we won’t be so nice as the banks if he doesn’t pay up. And here we are.”

Like most of the apartment buildings on this side of town, it was old, the paint chipped and peeling from the outside as well as the inside. When they walked into the ground floor of the lobby, more than one door suddenly slammed shut after catching a glimpse of them. Clearly, the Angel of Death’s people were known around here.

Roadhog gave a surprisingly loud sigh, pointing toward the staircase and shaking his head almost mournfully.

He didn’t need to speak for Fareeha to quickly see the issue at hand. The staircase in this old building was narrow and winding, so cramped that Fareeha doubted there was enough room for her and Junkrat to stand shoulder to shoulder across it.

Which meant that there was no way someone as large as Roadhog was going to make it up the stairwell.

“Aw, buddy...you hold the base for us.” Junkrat slapped his compatriot on the arm, looking remorseful. “I guess me and the spawn of Amari will handle it. Assuming she can handle it.”

Fareeha offered a noncommittal smile at the jab, and followed Junkrat up the rickety staircase, practically every step making the aged wood groan and creak. Their ‘client’ was all the way up on the fourth and final floor.

Junkrat paused only after the first flight of steps to dart a suspicious glance backward. “Unless you had any comments on how you think I should be handling this?”

“By all means, you take the reins. I trust your expertise. You do the talking, and I’ll follow your lead. This is your territory, right?”

Junkrat humphed at that, but Fareeha was being sincere. She did want to follow his lead, see just what exactly his methodology was...how he spoke, how he handled extraction. Every person had their own method. Fareeha knew better from her own experience than to just jump into an established operation and act like she knew everything. There was already a way, a process. Things worked best when she acknowledged and adapted to that...and then worked on improving it.

Their debtor’s door, like most of the others in the overheated building, was partially open to allow better air through. Junkrat rapped his knuckles on the wood frame once, and then slammed the door fully open without waiting for a response.

“How’s it going, Porgy?!”

The man who owed money to the Ziegler mafia—Porgy—practically jumped upright from the couch where he was laying. He was clad in only his boxers, and while he at first stumbled out a stuttered greeting to Junkrat, his eyes jumped to Fareeha and he nervously looked around for another garment.

Junkrat waved away the thought, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder and pressing him back down to the couch, giving a Cheshire grin.

“Easy, buddy. Easy. No need to get in a huff over my partner here. You’re not her type anyway.”

_Not wrong._

With Junkrat now having cornered their man back onto the couch and having taken a jovial seat next to him, Fareeha moved around into the apartment proper, dragging over one of two plain chairs from the nearby kitchen table.

‘Kitchen’ was a generous term. There was no sign that it had ever been used for any sort of cooking short of heating up cheap take-out options in the microwave. Dozens of scratch tickets and race horse bet receipts were scattered across the table, and Fareeha knew without glancing closely that none of them were winners.

Gambling addicts were even more loath to quit their habits than drug addicts at times. She had no doubt that Porgy would fall even deeper into debt and the hands of the loan sharks than what he already was.

But that wasn’t her concern.

And while the apartment didn’t scream money, Fareeha could still see all of the signs of upkeep and care that indicated Porgy definitely could pay back the first of the payments that he owed to the mafia, and that was her chief concern today.

The apartment itself was blistering with heat from being on the top floor, and the lazy swirling of the overhead fan did little to alleviate the oven-like feel.

Still, Fareeha gave no sign of her own discomfort, and pulled the chair up in reverse before taking her own seat, straddling the back of it as she rested her forearms across the top of the chair.

Junkrat had already started on what was a damn near eulogy in feeling and acted sorrow over Porgy’s late payment.

“Porgy, Porgy...you hurt me like this. The Angel is a woman of mercy. She lets me give you this money out of the kindness of her heart, you know? And this is how you repay that kindness?”

Porgy’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, and he readjusted the thick-rimmed glasses he wore, but held his ground, offering paltry excuses.

“And I’ll get you your payment for the load next month. Your Angel understands that a man’s got to eat, too, and there’s only so much I can manage. I promise next time I’ll have what’s due…”

It went on like that for a bit, Junkrat and the loanee going back and forth, Junkrat slowly working him into a corner. Stubborn ones like this who had yet to learn a lesson from taking loans out of the mafia usually weren’t quick to bend, and if the idea wasn’t to break him quite yet...just to squeeze a bit…

Without blinking or moving her eyes from the man, Fareeha reached into her inner coat pocket—deliberate enough to just barely reveal the outline of holster and loaded gun that rested against her ribs—and started pulling out rings.

They were gaudy things like theatre jewelry, with big crystals set into the metal; brass instead of gold, a metal that wouldn’t bend or deform so readily as its more prized cousin. Fareeha slipped them onto the fingers of her right hand one at a time, slowly and casually, all the while never breaking her gaze.

It was a show, with a very careful and tuned purpose. Some people were more fond of the usual brass knuckles, but those were the same thugs who would just as quickly throw the first punch. If there was one thing Fareeha knew, it wasn’t about just the act of intimidation alone, it was about the message. Anyone could punch or hit or shoot, just like any no name man who owed money to the mafia could end up in a pair of concrete shoes at the bottom of the river.

But if you could keep squeezing more blood from the stone…

Porgy was sweating now, the stale, pungent scent of fear that Fareeha knew so well now rising in the air. With all five rings now comfortably on her fingers, she began tapping a slow staccato, drumming her fingertips atop the wood of the chair.

Junkrat was doing his job exactly as she wanted, continuing to go on in his slightly manic description of expenses due, interest rates, and similar mundane items. All the while, the debtor had lost all pretense of even focusing on him. He had gone from darting worried glances at Fareeha to now full-out staring at her like a caged animal, the stark white of his eyes testament to his barely contained panic.

Suddenly, Fareeha’s finger tapping was the only noise in the room—outside of the slow but steady whir of the ancient ceiling fan overhead.

Junkrat had paused in his speech of sorts, and now the silence hung pregnant in the air, the entire small world of the dirty apartment and its sole inhabitant lurching and focusing in on Fareeha.

She snapped her hand and cracked the knuckles on it. Porgy jerked and flinched at the sound, and then Fareeha pinned him with an unforgiving glare. “Why are you looking at me? Am I talking to you? Was I talking to you?”

“N-no...I—”

“Who was talking to you? Don’t you look at whoever’s talking to you when they’re talking to you?”

“I—”

“Do you even know what he was asking about?”

She wasn’t expecting a coherent answer, but nor did she need one. Porgy had been too comfortable up until now, too certain that he was safe. It was about time to throw him off.

“Something about payments, right?”

She moved her ringed fingers as she asked the casual question, and the crystals on her rings caught the stray beams of sunlight through the blinds and flashed blindingly for a moment.

After that, a first payment was more than forthcoming.

Fareeha only began removing the rings from her fingers once they were leaving the apartment and walking down the hot and decrepit stairwell.

Junkrat raised his eyebrows again at her, but it wasn’t the same look of judgement as when she had walked into the Garage that morning. This time there was the clear and undeniable glimmer of respect.

“You like those better than brass knuckles?”

His eyes followed the glimmer of her rings, and Fareeha grinned. Instead of pocketing them away again, she offered them out. They were a far cry from actual high end jewelry, and she could easily replace them in the next day or two.

“Don’t get me wrong—brass knuckles get the job done, and done well. But sometimes, you need a little bit of something extra. Give it a try sometime.”

Junkrat only paused for a second before accepting the offered gift. This time when they stepped outside with Roadhog back in tow, he freely offered one of his cigarettes to Fareeha, even though she hadn’t even asked.

“Smoke? Got a long list still ahead of us.”

She accepted the cig with a toothy grin. Something told her she was going to get on working with Junkrat and his associates just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW. After doing lots of travel for work and then vacation since chapter one was released, here you go with chapter 2. Not much in the way of Angela besides mentions, but expect to see more of her in the next chapter ;D
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s no such thing as getting to comfortable with your job when you work for the Angel of Death.

The Saturday afternoon heat was at its worst outside, but inside the low lit and cosy den of Reinhardt’s bar, the air was cool and pleasant, and the ice-cold beer made it even better.

Saturday was a day when the cover operation as a car shop for Angel’s Garage did actually close early, and the undercover operations working out of it were so ahead of schedule on multiple fronts that Fareeha had made the call for an early day of work for all of them. Normally that would mean rounds of poker and blackjack going well into the evening in the smoky back room of the Garage, but today Fareeha was feeling particularly generous and celebratory. The last few weeks of getting settled into the Ziegler operations had gone more than smoothly. The Garage was practically home now.

No longer did she get side glances and stares at her Amari tattoo. From Junkrat down to the newest of thugs, she was viewed as one of them, as part of the family. It was a big step in the right direction, and as they had come to accept Fareeha, she had slowly expanded her sphere of influence within the Garage itself, making the work they conducted more efficient, more profitable, improving everything that she could.

Part of that improvement was also making sure that the time was taken to celebrate their own work. They’d had a hard week of a bunch of different operation, ranging from some enforcement to some unexpected and high profile fencing. Time to kick back and relax for a bit.

Which was how they ended up at Reinhardt’s.

Originally a speakeasy hideaway from the prohibition era, the modern bar still sported the same unobtrusive front, but the low hanging interior had long since been refurbished with dark paneled wood and the power of central air conditioning. It was a surprisingly classy sort of place, with the great German bear of a bartender able to pull out a bottle of aged Lagavulin whiskey as much as pour a simple pilsner from the taps.

Of course, what made the bar the most appealing was that it was a true neutral zone. Reinhardt’s bar answered to no one but Reinhardt himself. Not to Ana, not to Ziegler. And only once in Fareeha’s lifetime had the doors ever been closed. Reinhardt served whoever walked in, and everyone knew it was on the condition that the bar remained safe and neutral, and so all sides respected it.

Making it a good spot for an extra celebration.

Another round of beers was delivered to the table, and subsequent round of cheers went up in Fareeha’s favor. Only fair, considering it was all on her tab. Still, Fareeha clinked glasses and gave a genuine smile around the rim of her drink and the foam of beer.

They only just set down their beers from the toast when the door to the establishment opened, temporarily blinding the dim interior with sunlight, before the door swung closed again. Two men, wearing sharp and clean business suits, stood on the dais, looking around the interior of the bar.

Their eyes alighted on Fareeha’s table, and they walked immediately toward her. Suddenly, despite the beer, everyone was sitting up a little bit straighter.

There was no missing just who these men were, and who they represented.

“Miss Amari.” The bodyguard inclined his head the slightest bit, and then reached into the inner pocket of his coat. Not reaching for a gun—no one would be that stupid to do that in Reinhardt’s of all places—but for a small envelope, addressed in familiar, curling cursive script to a one Fareeha Amari.

Typical.

Fareeha accepted the cream-colored and thick envelope, pulling out an equally lavish card from within it. As she read the brief message—command of summons, really—her nostrils flared and took in the faint but pervasive scent of perfume that wafted up from the paper.

Wasn’t as though she had much choice in this, and being summoned back to see Ziegler was ostensibly the _good_ change in events; hopefully mother would be happy about it. Still…

Fareeha gave a simple shrug, pulling out a few large-numbered bills from her wallet first and putting them on the table. It would more than cover the rounds of drinks already consumed, and then some. After all, it was the least she could do.

Standing, Fareeha tipped her fingers in a mock salute to the group of thugs who she had only just gotten used to calling her compatriots.

“Looks, like I’m off boys. Have another drink for me!”

Junkrat gave a twisted grin and swiped at her abandoned beer before anyone else could grab it first. “Don’t need telling twice on that. Try not to forget us now that the boss is giving you bigger britches to wear, Amari!”

That remained to be seen.

Fareeha knew better than to get ahead of herself. Even if she was finally being promoted to work alongside Ziegler more closely, it only meant she had passed the first test of what were undoubtedly many. She couldn’t afford to let her guard down, even more so than before.

A darkly tinted, black luxury sedan was waiting on the curbside, engine running and hot, and an impassive chauffeur—Ziegler’s personal—waiting inside. One of Ziegler’s bodyguards opened the door to the back seat, gesturing for Fareeha to enter.

She slid into the middle seat, each of the bodyguards sent to retrieve her then taking a seat on either side of her. Even with the spacious interior, it made for tight seating. It also made it difficult for Fareeha to see just where she was being driven; it certainly wasn’t downtown or toward the more build up districts of the city. It wasn’t until they passed further into the countryside and arrived at a distinctive parking lot that Fareeha recognized where they were.

As she was ushered out of the car, she found herself staring up at the Vershorn Stadium for Horse Racing.

They entered in past security, walking up through the stairs and first into the bleachers of the public viewing green. The Saturday afternoon was buzzing with activity, one race having just ended, and a higher bet race about to begin.

Ziegler’s guards stopped to look down at the proceedings, and when Fareeha stared in confusion, he shrugged back at her. “We have time.”

Not one to complain, Fareeha walked up to the rail that overlooked the seating areas and racetrack itself. She watched as the jockeys canted their horses into the starting line up. Fareeha had never been one for watching races much in the past. The occasional bet on the big race, sure, but she had only ever been to the local Vershorn tracks maybe even once before in her life. There were different sorts of fish the Amari family was more interested in collecting on and controlling than things like the breeding and racing of obscure pedigrees of horseflesh.

But here in person, it was easier for a moment to see what made people fall in love with the idea behind it.

The thoroughbreds pranced into place, some antsy and ears flat back against their skulls, others calm and measured, but their perfectly brushed coats glistening in the late afternoon sun, powerful muscles rippling with all of that power that would soon be set against the wind itself. One in particular caught her eye. He was a chestnut stallion, a bounce in his step and ears pricked forward as if in anticipation of what was to come. Fareeha had no expert eye for horseflesh, but even she could see that this was a horse born to run. His jockey was equally as calm and collected, the virtue of experience clear beneath his lime green jersey.

Still, you never knew who was going to win a race until all was said and done.

Fareeha spared a backward glance at her two muscled escorts, but both of them had their eyes on the starting gate now that the last of the horses were loaded in. Sparing a momentary shrug, Fareeha planted both forearms along the rail and watched.

The bell rang, the gates opened, and the horses were off.

The first hundred yards were the usual neck and neck to be expected, and then the competition began to stretch out, the potential winners pulling away from the rest, kicking up mud and dust in their wake. As they rounded the last curve and went into the home stretch, one horse suddenly gained a second wind and the decisive lead far ahead from its would-be rivals.

It was with little surprise that Fareeha recognized the chestnut stallion and the neon green jersey of its jockey as they nosed past the finish line in a comfortable victory before slowing into a casual victory lap.

There was the usual mix of a few jubilant whoops in the crowd from winning gamblers amidst the groans of those who had not been so lucky. Fareeha would have turned to get going, but her bodyguard escorts had made no motions yet themselves, and her attention was just as quickly drawn back to racetrack below.

The jockey and the chestnut had come back around to the winner’s circle. The stallion was now decorated with the usual coat of flowers over its sweat-streaked flanks, and was instead being led by the bridle by the walking jockey. Newspaper photographers crowded around as the trophy and champagne were brought out, and the owner of the horse stepped up to be awarded the victor’s prizes.

Fareeha did a double-take, eyes bulging for a moment before she regained her composure, smiling to herself.

Really, who else had she expected to own the horse?

Angela Ziegler gave a picture-perfect smile as her photo was taken, flanked on one side by the jockey and her horse, and other by a man that Fareeha recognized as a congressman. She was wearing a dress and heels, and looking as though she was born to be in the spotlight of attention. Well then.

Fareeha finally tore her eyes away and pushed back from the rail...to find her two escorts grinning right back at her. Dammit, they’d seen her momentary drop in composure before. Which meant Ziegler would no doubt be hearing a full report of it later. Just great.

Finally, the bodyguards gestured that it was time to continue moving.

“C’mon, Miss Amari.”

She allowed herself a bit of a sour glare at their knowing smirks.

They moved out of the seating for the general public, flashing cards to get back through the hallways that led to the VIP and box office seats. In these indoor halls, it was quiet, sheltered from the noise of the usual bustle outside. The floors were carpeted, and the air held the pervasive lemony scent of cleaning product.

Fareeha was led to a white door with an unmarked bronze nameplate on it, and her confusion only grew when the door was opened to reveal an unoccupied and private room.

Inside was a vanity dresser, a small chaise lounge, and several full-length mirrors. Laid out on the sofa was a full suit, perfectly pressed and practically smelling of newness. Fareeha glanced up once at the crystal chandelier before raising an eyebrow at her guard, both of whom remained respectfully outside of the door.

“The boss expects you to be dressed appropriately to meet with her.” Said one of them finally, pointing back into what Fareeha had now determined was the most lavish dressing room she had ever seen at a race track.

Knowing better than to argue, Fareeha nodded, stepped into the red-carpeted room, and then closed the door behind her.

She had been wondering when all those measurements taken by the tailor over a month ago would actually come into play. The black suit and white dress shirt laid out before her were apparently her answer.

This time, Fareeha wasn’t surprised in the least bit when the suit fit her perfectly. She shrugged on the black slacks, buttoned up the cleanly pressed and still starchy white-collared shirt--leaving the top few buttons undone to cool off the heated skin around her neck. There were even gold cufflinks for her sleeves in a small jewelry box. They were each in the design of a miniature wing, set at the base of each wing with a deep blue stone. Fareeha squinted and twisted one in the light. She didn’t have enough experience with precious gems to tell if they were true sapphire, or simply bits of cheaper, similarly colored crystal. Somehow, she suspected it was the former. It would certainly match with the level of extravagance thus far.

Fareeha fixed the cufflinks in place, slipped her feet into polished, ankle height leather boots, and then shrugged on the black suit jacket last over her replaced gun holster and weapon.

The end result was...striking.

Fareeha stared at herself in the full-length mirror, taking a moment to admire that—even though it did feel a bit ridiculous to wearing a full Versace suit with a price tag that was easily five digits long—it did fit and look amazingly well on her.

And it was hardly like she was the one paying. If the Angel of Death was adamant on having her inner circle of bodyguards wear Gucci or Emporio Armani, that was her choice to pay out for.

Her musings were interrupted when there was a knock on the door.

“Coming!” She yelled over her shoulder, and then crossed the carpet to find her guard awaiting outside.

“The boss is expecting you now.”

They left the changing room and rounded a corner, Fareeha now feeling like she matched in rather inconspicuously with her two business-suited guards. Perhaps this would go well after all.

There was no time to dwell on it, though. They had stopped in front of the oaken-doored entrance to a VIP office box, which was flanked by two more stern bodyguards. A nod was exchanged between them, a brisk knock rattled on the door, and then they entered.

Doctor Angela Ziegler’s box office was just as lavish as the changing room Fareeha had only just come from, perhaps even more.

The wood panelled and dark carpeted interior had the perfect vantage point to overlook the races though tinted floor to ceiling windows. They were the sort of windows—Fareeha knew from glancing at them in the stands—that were mirrored on the outside, respecting the utter privacy of the high-profile VIPs who owned such boxes.

Fareeha was led around until she stood in front of that tinted glass, back to the race tracks outside, and facing the viewing couch upon which Angela Ziegler sat. At that point, the two guards who had led escorted her from the bar up until this point took their leave from her side, returning toward the door.

The intricate hat she had been wearing in the victor’s circle outside had since been deposited onto the coffee table beside a plate of various finger foods for sampling. Though the plate of hors d'oeuvres and desserts remained relatively untouched, like a gracious offering, Fareeha was under no such impression that they were there for her taking.

She forced her hands from her pockets, and stood with back straight, staring down at her boss.

Ziegler herself was casually smoking on one of her usual cigars, leaning back into her couch and already surveying Fareeha much as it seemed she surveyed her own prize horses. Her bright gaze flickered to the glass behind Fareeha’s shoulder for a minute.

“Did you enjoy the race, then?”

Fareeha allowed herself to have turn toward the glance before facing back. “I’m not a good judge of horses, Zi—boss.”

The ‘boss’ exhaled more smoke. “But…?” she prodded.

“But...you have a very impressive horse, ma’am.”

Ziegler smiled at that. “As I should. Horse breeding and and trading has been an old tradition in my family since well before either you or I were born. Alain’s Legacy ran well today, and he’s not even two yet. He’ll have plenty more bets to rake in profits on before he retires to just breeding mares.”

It took Fareeha a moment to realize that ‘Alain’s Legacy’ was the name of the chestnut stallion from earlier. She hadn’t been paying much attention to the names, only to the faces. Just as quickly, though, Ziegler abruptly changed course in the conversation.

“I’ve heard good things about you from the Garage operation over the past month. I suppose that’s testament to your work ethic—Junkrat isn’t one to give idle praise, after all.”

Fareeha remained still, uncertain if it was an invitation for her to speak, or if Ziegler was merely musing aloud. Better to err on the side of the latter.

“You’ve shown yourself competent, not just based off of the word of your family, but in practical reality. So perhaps now you’re deserving of actually receiving the honor of guarding me.” A smile curled across her lips, and for a moment her lipstick looked like wet blood. “No doubt mummy has been silently grinding her molars, wondering if I really do intend to uphold my end of our bargain and bring you within my inner circle, even if it is as my subordinate.”

Fareeha waited. And waited.

Ziegler’s gaze sharpened further as she looked Fareeha over, and for a moment Fareeha had to remind herself to swallow, and to fight back the urge to both shiver and sweat.

“But mummy also knows I’m no fool. And she’s no fool either. The question really is, whose fool are you, Fareeha Amari?”

Just what sort of question—

“Tell me,” Ziegler continued, her voice harder than stone. “Who are you loyal to?”

“I—”

“Talk is cheap. Words are meaningless, hollow. Words are for fools.” Ziegler’s voice snapped out, cutting off Fareeha before she could even fully form words. She crushed the burnt end of her cigarette into a crystal ashtray with a savage sort of grace. Then yet again, no different than their first meeting, Angela Ziegler stood, walking around her coffee table with an easy grace despite the sizeable stilettos she wore.

It was an inspection, perhaps even more pointed and focused than the first that Fareeha had been subjected to.

“Tuck in your shirt, heathen.”

The command was said sharply, but without any strong bite behind it. Yet despite ordering it herself, Ziegler’s hands reached Fareeha’s waist before Fareeha could even think to move, expertly tucking in the hem of her white shirt beneath the edge of her jet-black pants. Fareeha stayed perfectly, utterly still.

She remained as unmoving as a statue as she could when the Angel of Death continued, a slow, methodical process of personally inspecting and ensuring that every last inch of Fareeha was up to whatever standard seemed to be expected of her. Ziegler tugged smooth Fareeha’s slacks, readjusted the sparkle of her gold cufflinks, patted down the lapels of her jacket. Her hands ghosted over the outline of Fareeha’s holster and the loaded handgun that sat in it, and for a moment something like a pleased and secretive sort of smile crossed her face.

And then...

“Where is her tie?”

Indeed, all of the other guards were wearing simple black ties, but Fareeha didn’t remember seeing one with her new suit in the changing room.

There was a sudden edge of nervousness in the room, and Fareeha could hear the stutter of fear behind the man who spoke, even if he tried to hide it well.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Ziegler. I’ll go look immediately for”—

“Quiet.”

Ziegler only had to whisper it, but her voice was like iron. No one moved, and no one dared speak. Fareeha daren’t even look down at her boss, but stared out steadfastly toward the wood panelled wall behind her.

She could feel Ziegler fingertips trace along the undone buttons at the top of her shirt, skirt against skin for the briefest moment. It sent shivers racing up and down Fareeha’s back.

It was only then that Ziegler’s meticulous process faltered for a moment. Her hand reached for the top buttons, as if to button them up properly, but then stalled. Her piercing blue eyes stuttered for the faintest of moments, narrowing the slightest fraction with hesitation. Her lips thinned, almost as if disgusted with her own indecision.

Then in the next moment her hand had fallen away and Ziegler was already two steps back, and the intensity of her absence struck nearly as hard as a physical blow. Yet Fareeha remained unmoving.

For her part, Ziegler reached for a gilded box of cigars on the table, fetching one out and beginning to light it herself.

Her profile was mostly turned away, and it was impossible to read her features from what little light the momentary flame cast.

Ziegler took a deep drag, exhaling smoke before speaking. “Tell me, who are you loyal to, Fareeha Amari?”

This time, Fareeha stood still and let the silence roar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a lot happened in the way of action this chapter, I know, but hopefully you'll be getting more in that respect in forthcoming chapters c:
> 
> Cheers and I hope you're enjoying!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never let it be said the Zieglers don’t look after their own. Fareeha gets a chance to prove her loyalty to her new boss.

Whatever Fareeha had expected out of being a personal bodyguard to the Angel of Death, it wasn’t...well... _this_.

The true heart of her own mother’s small dynasty had been born from the sale and trade of illegal arms. Violence was profitable, and Ana knew that intimately better than most. She stuck, quite literally, with her guns, which meant always having to watch your back. You never knew what midnight deal would go sour in the abandoned warehouse, or what cartel would stupidly decide to put a hit on you.

Bodyguards were a necessity, as was the ability to look after yourself.

But working for Ziegler…

Sure, hired muscle was definitely in part about the pomp and circumstance, but this...Fareeha was starting to wonder if they were no different than the show horses at the race track, just about appearances.

Not that she was in a place to voice any such doubts of her own.

Fareeha shifted her weight from the heel of one foot to the other, sparing a glance toward her boss.

They were in yet another one of Ziegler’s _many_ high-rise offices today, and the Angel of Death had the phone to her ear. She was halfway swiveled in her leather seat, a smile painted across her carmine lips as she first exhaled a breath of smoke from her cigarette before continuing her conversation.

“Why yes, Senator...one of the new thoroughbreds will be racing next weekend. You should attend. At my invitation, of course…”

An invitation that—Fareeha had come to learn—was more of a summons than anything else, even if the man in question was a senator. That was the sort of reach and pull that Ziegler had.

And the sort of ‘business’ that she dealt in. Or so Fareeha was learning.

It was white-collar crime, conducted over phone calls and office conferences, not over liquor and bullets. Which brought Fareeha back to the original question of just why on earth she was even really needed here as a ‘bodyguard’. What was she supposed to even guard against? Bad fashion? Telemarketers?

As if to admonish her again, the memory of her mother surfaced to the forefront of her mind, her voice carrying through from the phone call they had shared a few nights before.

Ana had been pleased, that much was certain, though Fareeha was still not as convinced. So what if she was physically that much closer to Ziegler now? Caught between her mother and Ziegler alike, Fareeha felt frustratingly blind to whatever power play games were going on between the two rival-partners. Ziegler was constantly testing her, she _knew_ it in her gut—waiting perhaps for a slip up, for a failing that could be used against her. Meanwhile Ana—despite being her own mother and head of the Amari faction—was leaving her utterly in the dark, with no more guidance than to ‘succeed’ at whatever tasks Ziegler put before her, no matter the nature or difficulty.

And if Fareeha failed on either count for either woman…

She swallowed away the thought, uncertain of which was worse. Her mother’s anger was a thing of known fear within the Amari mafia, used to keep all ranks and files in line. Fareeha was under no such false pretenses as to believe she was above such punishment.

On the other hand...the silent terror with a total lack of even whispered stories about Ziegler…

Truly caught between a rock and a hard place.

Angela’s voice abruptly lilted across the air, interrupting Fareeha’s thoughts in a _very_ different tone than the sort that had been used minutes earlier with the senator over the phone line.

“Am I boring you, Fareeha Amari?”

The slow, smoky way Angela let the words drift from her lips would _seem_ to be harmless, but for the way her eyes burned, unblinking and cold, as she fully studied Fareeha from across her desk.

Fareeha’s mouth went dry at that.

Great. The last thing she needed was to worsen her already precarious position in limbo by letting her mind wander too obviously while she was still on the clock.

“Because if the prestige of working as one of my personal bodyguards has worn off, then I’m _certain_ I can find something—”

The thought was cut off when Ziegler’s desk phone rang again. Angela frowned for a moment, then hit the voice comm button, putting them through on speaker to her secretary.

“Is it the senator again?”

_“No, sorry to interrupt you, ma’am. But there’s an urgent call that I thought you would want to take yourself on Line 2.”_

If possible, Ziegler frowned even more severely for a moment, but she picked up the phone and transferred the call back from speaker.

“This is Angela Ziegler speaking.”

All that was audible to Fareeha was the faint and indeterminate buzzing of a voice from the other end of the phone line. If it was possible, Ziegler’s gaze became even harder, except now it was no longer focused on Fareeha. She instead stared toward the wall, almost through it. Unlike her prior call with the politician, she remained quiet, listening, and though Fareeha strained, she could not hope to overhear whatever was being said on the other end. And Ziegler herself might as well have been a statue for how little she spoke.

“Yes. Yes. I see. Thank you for letting me know.”

There was no emotion in what Angela said, but her eyes suddenly burned with cold light, and Fareeha unconsciously stood a hair straighter. Her curiosity had been piqued now, though she didn’t care to show it too obviously as her boss firmly replaced her phone onto the receiver.

Angela Ziegler stood up calmly, her gaze pinned on the door as she already began to walk around her desk. She gestured with one hand. “Simon and Fareeha with me.”

Whatever reprimand had been on the boss’s lips before the phone call seemed now completely lost to the past, and for once Fareeha was all too happy to scurry up to Ziegler’s side, offering Angela’s jacket to her on one arm.

As per usual, the black luxury sedan was already waiting at the curb, the engine hot and purring beneath the hood. A chauffeur was seated in the front seat. Fareeha stepped forward to open the side door to the backseat for her boss, who stepped smoothly into the leather interior before Fareeha joined her. Simon merely dipped his head in, though. “Ma’am?”

“St. Agatha’s. Critical care.”

He bobbed he head once, closed the door, and then opened the front seat passenger door for himself. Then they were off and away, and Fareeha was still none the wiser as to just what exactly they were up to. And Ziegler wasn’t exactly forthcoming.

Or was she?

Fareeha studied her boss out of the corner of her eyes, picking up subtle differences that only a week or two earlier would have escaped her notice.

Angela seemed...distracted. Impatient. Her head was angled to look out the tinted window, and she had propped one elbow against the door, resting her chin into her palm in a deeply pensive look. Her jaw was tight with tension that replaced the normal fluid relaxation. Fareeha dared not study too hard, even out of her peripheral vision, lest Ziegler notice. If something truly was... _bothering_...the Angel of Death so much, Fareeha hardly wanted to be on the receiving end of misplaced ire.

Besides, her job—as she was so often reminded—was to serve and to protect. Her eyes were meant to be watching their surroundings, not their boss. So Fareeha slid her gaze back to her own window, watching the blur of urban landscape pass by in a smear of familiar gray.

St. Agatha’s was one of the three major hospitals in the metro area, boasting highest level trauma response. Like the the other two hospitals, it was also majority share owned by none other than Angela Ziegler.

As soon as they entered, the young man behind the receptionist desk shot upright.

“Director Ziegler! I had no idea you were going to be in today! I can call the Chief of Staff right now. I just need to pull him out of a meeting—”

Angela waved away the fervent concern, barely even sparing a glance toward the man. “Personal visit. I already know the room.”

And then they were walking down the hall, up two stories in the elevator and into the critical care ward. The entire route, various doctors would glance at them only to often go wide-eyed and then bow and murmur a greeting to Ziegler, even though she was already striding past them. It was the sort of recognition and respect that money alone couldn’t buy.

Finally, they came to one of the single-bed rooms. Simon knocked on the door twice, politely, and then opened it for the boss to enter first.

Inside the room two figures practically leapt to their feet, one a middle-aged woman, and the other a young blonde who couldn’t even be Fareeha’s age yet.

“Doctor Ziegler!”

Angela, however, had her eyes on the occupant of the sole bed in the room. He was an elderly man, with an IV drip hooked up to an arm and oxygen feeding into his nose for all that he was awake and alert.

He struggled just to push himself upright, frowning and huffing beneath his great, golden beard, and waving away the attempts of the woman whom Fareeha assumed was his spouse to ease him back down.

He did cease when Angela reached his bedside, though.

Fareeha took her place at the door opposite of Simon, as she knew she was expected to. Still, she watched with interest as Angela took the chair next to the hospital bed, leaning forward to clasp the man’s nearest hand in her own. Her boss suddenly looked much less like the head of a mafia, and much more like any other concerned visitor seeing a friend or family member stuck in the hospital.

The man grumped unexpectedly, though his voice still wheezed, short of breath. “Didn’t need to come all this way out here, especially now that I’ve retired.”

Angela leaned in, and Fareeha did not miss the small but genuine smile her normally hard boss spared for this man. “Just because you finished working for me doesn’t make you any less part of the family, Torbjörn.” Angela did spare a meaningful glance around the room. “It’s good to see Milla and Elle here. Who’s taking care of the rest of your kids right now?”

The woman that Fareeha presumed was the wife spoke briefly, her voice showing how tired and strained she was. “Milla’s here with us, but I have the other older two keeping track of the rest of our children at home for the moment.”

“Certainly a handful.” Angela spoke judiciously, and raised one eyebrow in question. “I can send—”

Torbjörn cut her off, waving and coughing. “Don’t need to do anything, boss. I’ll be out of here soon enough. Family will be fine.

This time both of Angela’s eyebrows rose. “Form my understanding, the doctors want to continue monitoring your stab wound for a least a few days before they send you off, no matter how well they sewed you back up.”

That was met with a heavy sigh, but Angela continued.

“I must admit, old friend, I had thought you retiring into a life of owning a liquor store would be much lower risk profession. This isn’t quite how I imagined reuniting with you since we last saw one another.”

The man gave a second, heavier sigh, and Fareeha caught the complex glimpse of emotion in his eyes before he closed them: anger, frustration, but embarrassment and worry, too. So this was a former man of employ under Ziegler? With a family and the talk of a store, he must have amicably retired from the business of the mafia. Fareeha could understand the embarrassment of having gone from a life of being a hard man to getting robbed and assaulted in his own store.

“Didn’t think those punk ass kids would actually use a knife on me. As soon as I pulled my gun they scattered, of course. Amateurs.”

Fareeha watched the way that Angela frowned in displeasure. It was a look that Fareeha had learned to fear if was directed at her, but now it was focused more into the distance, and Fareeha momentarily wondered at what thoughts were already stewing inside of her boss’s head.

Yet there was little enough time to dwell on it. As if acutely aware of Torbjörn’s needs as a patient, Angela patted his hand once more.

“I’ll take care of everything, old friend. And I mean _everything_.” Angela shifted her gaze up to look at Torbjörn’s daughter, Milla. “I mean it. Anything you need, let me or my compatriots know. The hospitals bills are already taken care of. I won’t hear an argument against it.”

A stream of sincere and somewhat teary-eyed ‘thank-you’s’ chorused in the small room.

Torbjörn gave a bit of sheepish grin when Angela stood, her face already returning to its usual mask of cool indifference. “Thanks, boss.”

Angela did smile then.

“Just get better soon, old friend. I’m sure your family will appreciate that the most.”

Then they took their leave, exiting the hospital just as swiftly and pointedly as they had entered. But as the sedan pulled them back out onto the road, Angela whispered one word:

“Home.”

This time, Fareeha was unable to mask her momentary sharp glance, though if Ziegler noticed, she said nothing. They didn’t drive to one of the elite high rise condos, or outside of the city limits. Instead they drove into an older part of town, one that had decayed over the years as the ebb and flow of production versus service industry had alternated, as the type of people immigrating into the city had changed just as much as those who were choosing to leave it. Fareeha knew if they were drive only ten minutes more in either direction, they’d hit decrepit slums, the result of decades of urban expansion and sprawl. But here, here on these quiet, impeccably maintained streets were nothing less than small, historic mansions.

Not the massive estates like what Ana and the other _nouveau riche_ had built further out in the suburbs. No, these smaller mansions—like a pristine and timeless island floating above the surrounding filth—were the last bastion of the old money, of families who had come into their wealth when this city was still but a speck of the sprawling metropolis it had burgeoned into now.

The driver suddenly slowed and they pulled up a white driveway to what was easily a twelve-foot tall vehicle gate, protected on either side by impossibly tall and thick hedges, with a stone wall just behind the greenery.

Privacy and security. Two things that only money and power could buy.

There was no ornate ‘Z’ emblazoned across the gate as Fareeha had expected. Instead, all that identified what must be Angela’s inherited family residence was a simple but shining bronze name plate just to the left of the gate itself, spelling out in plain lettering, ‘Ziegler’. Then they were driving through and the gate was closing firmly behind them, suddenly cutting off the hustle and noise of the rest of the city and world beyond the hedge and wall-enclosed protection of the Ziegler mansion.

Fareeha drank in the details of the small front yard and the facade of the house. It was sedate, a perfectly manicured landscaping of flowers and small trees with not a single dead leaf or flower petal in sight.

Her inspection was cut short as the car rolled to a halt and the chauffeur switched it into park, nodding into the rearview mirror. Fareeha realized almost a moment too late what was expected of her, but moved quickly enough to step out of the car and then hold open the side door for Angela to exit as well. The front door opened before Fareeha had even fully turned to follow her boss, an older man—presumably a butler of some sort—giving a graceful and sincere bow.

“Welcome home, Miss Ziegler.” He straightened, holding the door open for Fareeha to enter as well. Simon had stayed in the car. “What time would you like to dine this evening?”

Angela waved him away gently. “Supper in an hour and half, and have a bath drawn for me in thirty.”

The man bowed and took his leave, while Fareeha continued to trail after her boss, who was walking at a brisk pace down one of the hallways. Fareeha followed her into a small library of sorts; a study, she realized after a second. The bookshelves in the room were filled and brimming with elegant, hard-cover and gold-lettered classics. There was an ornately carved and very solid looking antique desk near the window at the back, and an inviting leather couch by a coffee table closer to the front.

The dark, espresso colors to the furniture and design gave a tasteful, but somehow cozy sort of air to the room, and Fareeha sensed without asking that this was most certainly _Angela’s_ study. Of course, she daren’t even think about sitting on the couch while her boss still stood.

For her part, Angela walked around the massive desk, reaching for the crystal decanter of golden liquor that sat there first and pouring herself a generous two fingers of whatever hard alcohol it was. She swirled once, then sipped.

Contrary to looking for a cigar as Fareeha expected, Angela instead took another, slower sip, and then finally spoke.

“Fareeha.”

Angela uttered only her name, but there was an eerie, sing-song quality to it.

Fareeha took a step forward, giving a small but curt nod. “Boss?”

“You’ve been bored lately, no? Less...action that your old role in the Amari affairs.”

She chose wisely to remain silent over that, waiting for Ziegler to continue.

“Well I have a job for you now. A solo job.”

Angela reached into her drawer, and there was the crinkle of plastic before she slid an object across the desk: a small, used handgun, kept safely in a Ziploc bag. Fareeha knew what she was supposed to do before it was even said. When she reached for it, however, her boss put one slender, French-manicured finger back down on the bag, holding it in place more by silent command than any brute strength. Fareeha looked back up to meet steel behind that blue gaze.

Each word was carefully enunciated. Quiet, but unforgiving.

“Never let it be said that the head of the Ziegler family does not take care of her own. You want to prove your loyalty? Take care of this problem. Cleanly.”

Only then did Angela remove her finger from the bag, turning around in her chair to stare out of the window behind her, as if surveying the hidden cityscape that was her kingdom.

Fareeha pocketed the weapon, bowing and then taking her leave a step more quickly than she would have liked to admit.

* * *

The sun had long since given way to a night made even darker by heavy cloud cover. Fareeha cruised at a leisurely pace through the streets, one hand on the wheel of the black luxury sedan she’d picked up from The Garage.

She’d done hits before—it was practically impossible to be part of the Amari operations without having done a hit, a reality of the brutal world of arms trade—but never one quite in this style. Fareeha was familiar with the fast and dirty sort of retaliation; episodes of drive by shootings on motorcycles, automatic weapons, grenades even. This was something else. Junkrat had been waiting for her at The Garage not only with the car, but with the exact info on the would-be fledgling gang that was her target. He’d saluted her off with his usual twisted smile, setting another pot of coffee before returning to the game of poker that he and the boys were playing, throwing a wave and assuring her that they’d be waiting for when Fareeha returned late into the night.

Fareeha drove steadily west, out of even the blue collar work and government-subsidized low-income housing and into the slums. This was the heart of drug abuse and violent crime, abandoned buildings making the perfect hideaways for aspiring gangs.

One of which she was going to put a swift and clear end to tonight.

Fareeha knew without asking that the handgun Ziegler had passed over to her was probably a stolen good, linked to some other random crime. Something that even if the cops were able to trace after the fact, would lead in a circle right back to the lower level gangs rather than to Ziegler family and their more elite and established modes of business.

A few blocks from the destination that she had been informed was her target location, Fareeha slowed the car and pulled to the side of the road, near one of the many broken down buildings. No reason to alert her targets to the fact that retribution was coming by driving right on up. After all, this wasn’t to be some senseless drive by. No, Fareeha knew without asking that Angela Ziegler wanted—no, _demanded_ —something far more classic than punishment so crude as a drive by shooting.

For a strange moment, Fareeha felt oddly self conscious. She pulled down the sun visor down to look at herself in the mirror. First, she readjusted her thin black tie and the corresponding golden clip, and then buttoned her jacket over her midsection. Even buttoned, it rested comfortably, the custom tailored fit testament that it would not impede her motions in the slightest. Satisfied, Fareeha stepped out of the car, locking it before pocketing her keys.

She stood in place for a long moment, pulling first from her pockets a pair of purple nitrile gloves to go over her current leather ones. As she wiggled her fingers into the tight fit, she spoke aloud, her voice carrying just enough into the shadows to let whatever junkies or homeless urchins she knew lurked amidst the trash and alleys hear.

“Nothing happens to the car while I’m away. Trust me, none of us want that.”

She finished by pulling out the gun that Angela had given her earlier, and heard the corresponding scuttle in the shadows of people who knew now that she was not one to be preyed upon.

Quite the opposite.

Fareeha took one more second to ensure the safety was off and the plastic shoe covers were firmly over her own leather boots, and then walked the rest of the two blocks down to the condemned house that was her target.

No point in slowing down now.

Light and sound streamed from inside, and the pungent smell of weed wafted in the air. Good. They wouldn’t expect what was about to occur.

Fareeha bounded up the porch in three quick steps and, without pausing, shoved straight through the half-rotted front door. There was a pause that lasted for a short eternity, Fareeha quickly taking in the five men and women, barely out of teenage years, who were lounging across the room.

Then, the young man closest to her was standing, brow already drawing down and face sneering as he took a step forward, his tattooed arms bulging.

“Hey! Who do you think—”

BAM.

The first shot went straight into his chest and he dropped like a stone. Two more followed him before the remaining gang members had even scrambled to their feet.

BAM.

One more down, one left to go.

The last member had a gun in hand, but it clattered from her grip when a bullet caught her in the throat.

Five shots, five dead bodies in the room.

Over in less than ten seconds.

Fareeha walked around the pools of blood, careful not step in any of it even with the plastic covers on her shoes. She checked first to make sure the magazine was still good on her gun, and then carefully went to each body and shot an executioner’s bullet through the front of each forehead, never mind that they were already dead. It was about the message left behind.

That finished, she slipped on a pair of rubber gloves over her leather ones, and recovered all ten bullets. They gave metallic plinks against one another as they were dropped into the same Ziploc bag that Ziegler had given her the gun in. Then the gun followed the bullets. Then the shoes covers once she was outside again. Then the nitrile gloves once she had driven to the dark underpass near the river. And finally a heavy chunk of scrap metal before the bag was sealed, and Fareeha tossed it into the black and fast flowing waters so that it would quickly sink to the bottom.

Fareeha watched, counting the seconds in time with her breath when nothing rose back up to the surface. The bridge overhead thrummed with a few passing cars. She patted at her own glock that remained comfortably nestled in her chest holster, unused, and then walked back toward the sedan, slipping her leather gloves off and pocketing them away as well. One breath in, and then one out.

Then Fareeha was pulling away from the river and making the leisurely drive back toward The Garage where she knew Junkrat would be waiting, likely with both cigs and booze. A stiff drink sounded well-deserved to her at this point, and she didn’t need to report in to the boss for another four hours anyway.

Fareeha expected the message she had left behind to be good enough to make the papers in the next day or two.

Hopefully it would more than meet Angela’s expectations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience in waiting. Unfortunately my life is in utter chaos right now with trying to write my PhD dissertation, play semi-pro rugby, and find a job haaaaa. So fanfic writing has kind of taken a back seat to Life (tm). Again though, thank you for your patience, and I hope you enjoy!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fareeha is not certain if this is a reward for loyalty, or just where it she stands with Angela Ziegler...or with her mother.

“You’re quite the sphinx, Fareeha Amari. Or certainly quiet enough to be one.”

Fareeha glanced sideways at the sudden musings of her boss, finding herself under a piercing blue scrutiny that she was still not used to. She risked a response.

“I’m your resident bodyguard now. Or was part of that job description entertaining you as well?”

That brought a small smirk to Angela’s red-tinted lips. It was a smirk Fareeha had become familiar with more as of late, and she knew it was one of genuine mirth. “Only when I ask you to.”

Truthfully, Fareeha was more than a bit cowed, even now. Though the hit she had executed on the gang from the two weeks prior had gone over well with her boss (more than well, apparently), the sudden announcement that Fareeha was to move into the Ziegler residence to serve as more of complete and full-time (in every aspect of the word) bodyguard had caught her very, very off guard.

Just what game was Angela playing? Fareeha was not so delusional as to believe her ability to kill efficiently and effectively was some great turning point. And, indeed, she felt she was still being tested in some way, even if she had passed through the few initial hoops. Just what evaluations and gears were constantly turning in her boss’s mind?

A few, meager boxes of Fareeha’s clothing and possessions that she wanted to bring were being carried into the house by two workers, and despite Fareeha’s new ‘promotion’ in the bodyguard ranks, two regular guards still flanked Angela, stoic and unmoving.

The sun was blazing overhead, and as the workers disappeared into the mansion, Angela followed them, gesturing for Fareeha to do the same. “Come.”

Angela’s heels clicked on the tiles of the hallway, Fareeha’s boots matching in a lower and dulled echo. More so than when she had visited before, Fareeha took in her surroundings, trying to memorize the details of the place that would now be both ‘home’ and ‘work’.

She stopped short at one of the massive paintings that lined the walls.

“Is that...an original Rembrandt?!” Fareeha nearly yelped when she said it, suddenly afraid of even looking at it lest she potentially damage the valuable painting.

A chuckle practically wafted out of Ziegler’s throat from ahead, rich with amusement, and Fareeha relaxed, knowing it couldn’t be the real art given the reaction.

“A educated sphinx, too, then. Of course it’s not an original.” she teased for a moment, turning to continue walking. Fareeha was just catching back up when she spoke again. “The original is on loan to a museum right now.”

Fucking hell.

Fareeha had to stumble to catch up to Angela, slowing when they approached the open door to a room.

“Here. I presume everything should be up to your needs.”

Fareeha entered the bedroom, stepping aside as the workers who had now set her boxes took their leave. Like everything else in the Ziegler household, it was pristine. A large queen-sized bed with a generous amount of pillows, ornate and dark-stained oak furniture, a reading chair that Fareeha doubted she would ever use…

She ventured toward the broad closet doors, opening them out of curiosity.

Fareeha shook her head the smallest degree. It was filled with new suits and dress shirts, and bags for dry cleaning services. Fareeha knew without even bothering to check that all of the clothing was in her size. If she was doomed to wear business suits for the foreseeable future, at least they were comfortable. She opened a connecting door on the far side of the room, finding a marble-line bathroom that awaited her.

 _Fancy_.

After inspecting the newly fluffed towels and the dazzling array of shampoos and soaps, Fareeha returned to her room, but both Angela and her other bodyguards were gone.

Instead, the butler was her door, and bowed his head as he spoke. “If everything is to your liking, Mistress Ziegler would like you to know that you have the next two days as personal vacation time before she will need your services again. If you require anything else, please let me know.”

 _Lucky me_ , thought Fareeha idly. She would need to set up a careful meeting with her mother for certain, but in the meantime.

“Been awhile since a girl’s had a night out…” she announced to her new bedroom, and she reached for the cell phone in her pocket with a grin.

It was after 2 am when Fareeha carefully and quietly made her way back to the Ziegler mansion. She’d debated briefly before the wisdom of stumbling back to what was still first and foremost her boss’s residence after a night spent out drinking and gambling with the guys from the Garage. But while she wasn’t particularly inebriated anymore, and found she also wasn’t in the mood to instead perform a walk of shame in the morning after staying in another woman’s bed for a night.

So back to the mansion it was, quiet as a mouse once she passed through the security entry gate, even though she was hardly worried about disturbing anyone anymore than the grandfather clock with its toll for the dead could.

After quietly closing the massive French doors to the foyer, she turned to make sure they were appropriately locked, pocketing her keys back away.

“You’ve been having a good night, I see.”

Fareeha froze, something akin to _mind-numbing panic_ briefly running through her veins before she regained the ability to both move and think again.

Angela Ziegler was leaning against the banister of the main staircase, arms crossed and wearing designer jeans and sandals and a casual, tight sweater. It was a very different look than the one she exuded while wearing dresses and heels or suits. But it was no less dangerous, and Fareeha did not move when Angela uncoiled from the banister and slowly closed the distance between them.

Suddenly, Angela was up against her, their faces separated by mere inches. Fareeha went still again, trying to make her mind focus on more inane details, like the even more pronounced height difference now that Ziegler was wearing flat sandals instead of two-inch stilletos—most certainly _not_ thinking about the way her boss’s very firm breasts were pushed against her, or how long it had been since she had gotten laid (god, why _hadn’t_ she decided to go home with that redhead tonight?).

Any semblance of thought went right out the proverbial window when one of Angela’s hands suddenly snaked up to Fareeha’s collar, expertly undoing the first two buttons before her head dipped down. Fareeha could feel more han hear the deep inhalation of breath from her boss, and for a moment she feared Angela might be able to hear her thudding heart beat.

Then abruptly Angela was releasing her collar and stepping back, a frown of distaste twisting her lips. “You smell like cheap booze and even cheaper cigarettes. Is that to your liking? Surely you can afford better.”

Fareeha shrugged, trying not to look too sheepish. “The guys usually like the cheaper dives…”

This time Angela pursed her lips, and then crooked one finger in command for Fareeha to follow as she walked away. Right...that whole ‘work-life’ separation or lack thereof... “I suppose it all is about the company you keep... _come_.”

Angela walked down the hall, and Fareeha was led back to the cozy, private study that she remembered from the first time she had stepped foot in the Ziegler household. Even though Angela had her back turned and was busied with something at the coffee table, it was as though she could sense Fareeha’s discomfort.

“You can relax...you’re still on off time right now.”

“Am I ever really, boss?” Fareeha blurted it out without thinking, but her comment evoked a smirk from Angela, who had turned back around with two crystal tumblers in hand, offering one out. Fareeha accepted it cautiously, bringing it to her lips only when Angela did the same.

Smooth liquid coursed over her tongue, the scotch tasting like liquid gold—meant to be savored, not tossed back. This was definitely some top-shelf stuff.

When Fareeha looked back up from her glass, she found Angela looking at her, smirk still present. “Well?”

“You have good tastes,” Fareeha conceded.

Clearly pleased with the response, Angela walked away to sit down on one end of the leather couch. “Bring the cigars over, will you?”

Fareeha grabbed both the smooth-grained wooden box from the desk as well as the lighter—no doubt plated with actual silver. She opened up the box once she approached the couch, allowing her boss to personally pick her cigar from the selection.

Once Angela had taken her pick, Fareeha flicked open the lighter and easily coaxed a small but steady flame into life. Setting down the box onto the coffee table, she cupped the flame with her other hand, and then leaned in to light the end of Angela’s cigar. The boss breathed in deeply, and then her cigar readily began smoking. She inhaled another deep breath, and then exhaled a small cloud of smoke with a tiny sigh of contentment.

Fareeha had only just set down the lighter and was beginning to back away, when Angela picked up another one of her choice cigars from the box, and then spun it across her fingers, offering it to Fareeha.

That earned a raised eyebrow at first from Fareeha, at least before Angela—quite deliberately—spewed more smoke at her.

“Your last encounter in my study was not typical for this room. If I’m going to speak to an audience here, I prefer it be a little more...intimate than formal.”

Fareeha raised both eyebrows then, but accepted the cigar, this time leaning in when Angela gestured for her to light it directly from the embered tip of Angela’s own cigar. It took a moment, and then the distinct taste of tobacco filtered across her tongue and into her lungs. She pulled back, taking a moment to admire the smooth flavor of the infinitely more expensive choice roll compared to the cigs she occasionally bummed while working the streets. Through the haze of smoke between their faces, she caught Angela’s lips curling upward around her own cigar for a moment, clearly pleased.

Then her boss was gesturing to the other end of the leather couch, a clear indication for Fareeha to sit. Fareeha lowered herself down gingerly, unsure of what exactly was expected of her. Angela had slid her Gucci sandals off, and now had her legs comfortably curled up on the cushions. Fareeha frowned down at her own leather shoes for a moment, entirely unwilling to take them off, and the forced herself to lean back and place one elbow up onto the armrest.

They sat, silence only broken for a long minute by the sounds of sucking in on the cigars, and breathing out streams of smoke.

A thought occurred to Fareeha, and she risked voicing it, making her voice light and joking. “You sure do smoke a lot for a doctor.”

As if to spite the point, Angela took a particularly deep drag. “We all have our vices, do we not? But I’ll have you rest assured I do have a medical doctorate, even if the knowledge required for that particular diploma is rarely called upon these days.”

Oh.

Almost as if she could read Fareeha’s curious thoughts, Angela spoke again.

“Have you ever heard about how I came to head the entire Ziegler operation?”

For the third time that night, Fareeha went utterly, perfectly still for a long moment, but Angela wasn’t even looking at her. Her eyes gazed across the study, glazed and distant. Everyone had heard some version or another of the events. After all, it wasn’t normal circumstances by which a woman came to be one of the powerful underworld figures in the country before age thirty.

She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to say. When Fareeha remained silent, Angela continued, her lips tilting upward in a sardonic sort of smile.

“I never originally wanted the position, you know. I wasn’t interested in the family business. I was something of a prodigy growing up. I graduated college at 18, and can speak six different languages fluently.” It wasn’t said in a bragging sort of way, just as a simple fact, and Fareeha was suddenly entranced. “I wanted to be a doctor. And my parents supported me. After all, my brother was happy to follow in their footsteps and take over the family business when the time was ready. So I went to medical school. I got my degree. I started my residency.”

Fareeha waited, her curiosity now piqued. Some of these things were common knowledge, and as she recited her history, Angela’s voice was casual, calm. And then suddenly it grew hard.

“And then one day, when I was about to go on call for surgery, I received a message. A delivery, really. A box, with wedding ring fingers from both of my parents—the rings still on the bases—and a message from the head of the Shimada group. They had only just killed my brother for not cooperating with their plans for expansion, and my parents would be next unless I acted differently.”

Fareeha sucked in a deeper breath than intended, and nearly began coughing. Angela didn’t seem to notice.

“When I met with those two brothers, I freely admit that I begged. I got down on hands and knees. I prostrated myself and swore the dissolution of everything my parents had ever built in this city if they would let them go.” Angela paused to tap the ash from her cigar, to sip from her drink. “And then they had them dragged out. And they beheaded them right in front of me.”

And the rest was history. The rest everyone else who had ever walked the streets knew. Shimada had been a dead name for over a decade now, and where all of the bodies were hidden...perhaps no one would ever know. The Shimada group—built on careful decades of growth and infrastructure—had been demolished in the span of months, until even now people feared to speak the names of those men long since dead aloud. And from their ashes, the Angel of Death had risen, building an empire even more vast than what her parents or brother had perhaps ever dreamed.

Fareeha swallowed and looked up, and found Angela now looking directly at her. Her blue eyes were piercing. Cold.

“I swore from that day, Fareeha Amari. I swore from that day onward that no one would ever make me beg for anything again.” Angela stood in a smooth, single motion and then took two steps until she was standing between Fareeha’s legs where she still sat on the couch. Angela reached in, and with a featherlight touch, slowly traced the _wadjet_ below Fareeha’s eye. “That anything I wanted...I would have the power to take with my own two hands. And that _no one_ would ever stop me.”

Angela was straightening again, her cigar now finished, and Fareeha realized she was gaping.

The trademark smirk that Fareeha had come to recognize was back in place on her boss’s face, but it wasn’t perfect, and Fareeha could still see a trace of _something_ from before.

“You’re a good listener, Fareeha. I like that about you.”

Then Angela already had her sandals on and was moving out the door, and Fareeha was left alone. The grandfather clock tolled out from the main hall, signalling the time as 3 am.

* * *

The Horse and Hoof was an old, rundown excuse of a bar, off the beaten track and far enough from Ziegler territory without being too deep into Amari lands. Around noon on weekday, it also made for an appropriately quiet and inconspicuous meeting point for Fareeha to talk with her mother.

Fareeha glanced at her watch, which told her it was two minutes to noon, before walking into the dimly lit and smoky den that served as a bar.

The old bartender looked up once at her, and she signalled for a beer before stepping further in, blinking and scanning the mostly deserted establishment for a familiar face. She found one at a far table, but it was not who she was expecting.

“Zarya?”

Fareeha’s incredulity leaked through her voice, surprised, pleased, and confused to see the woman before her.

Zarya set her drink down and rose, catching Fareeha in a gigantic bear hug that made her ribs creak. Fareeha gave Zarya a resounding pound on the back, and grinned wolfishly once they parted.

“I thought my mother still had you in Jordan doing work with the Russians!”

Once they had stepped back, Fareeha glanced around the empty bar a second time. “Is she not here?”

Fareeha didn’t miss the momentary flicker across Zarya’s eyes, but the point was dismissed before Fareeha could even bother chasing it. “She sent me instead, yes? Or would you have me let momma bear know her cub misses her?”

 _That_ garnered a look of pain from Fareeha as she sat down, though she was mercifully saved by the bartender coming over to drop off her drink. She slid a bill to him and then took a deep swig from her glass.

“Please never repeat that phrase in front of me again.”

Zarya let out a chuckle from deep in her belly, then sipped her own straight vodka. “Business first, yes? I’m here to collect on what your status is with the Angel of Death.”

Fareeha nodded, reporting off her current status with Ziegler, but really, there wasn’t much to say. Beyond the fact that she was now residing in the same household, it wasn’t as though Fareeha had made any jumps and bounds in finding any huge ‘secrets’ to the Ziegler operation...or whatever it was her mother expected. She had been watching and listening to how Ziegler made her money on shipments, on drugs, on monopolies both legal and illegal, but...beyond that...

Yet Zarya seemed unphased. She simply nodded as Fareeha rattled off the state of things. “Good, then. I think Ana will be pleased. Just keep the same.”

Which was not particularly specific guidance either.

Zarya seemed to sense as much, and pulled out her pack of cigarettes to offer one up. “Cheer up, my friend. If Ana is happy with you, then you are fine. She just wants you to continue to garner whatever trust Ziegler is capable of giving.”

They both lit up, and after blowing a few casual smoke rings, Fareeha found the words inadvertently escape from her mouth, the question she had been thinking of since last night.

“What do you know about Ziegler?”

Zarya raised her eyebrows. “Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that, my friend? You are the one working for her now.”

Fareeha frowned at that, staring into her beer before taking a deep drink. In principle what Zarya said was true. But in practice…

“You know I didn’t spend much time here before.” She meant the city as gestured vaguely with one hand. “Mom had me moving places, especially once I was old enough to be part of the operations.”

Zarya leaned back in her seat, shrugging. “So what do you want to know?”

“The Shimadas.”

“Fucking…” Zarya muttered under her breath, making a gesture with her thumb between two fingers than Fareeha had learned to recognize years ago. She waited until her old compatriot had pushed her finished cig into the ashtray and lit another one. Zarya chewed a bit on the on the filter of the cigarette as she smoked heavily for a minute.

“What do you want to know about that dead name that you don’t already? Bad luck to bring up ghosts, especially with a boss who might send you along with them for too much vested interest.”

When Fareeha waited patiently, Zarya finally heaved a sigh, muttering under her breath.

“...as bad as your mother with that look. Fine. You know the basics as much as anyone else. Three main families here: Amari, Ziegler...and Shimada. And then the Shimada brothers decided to off the Zieglers.”

Here, Fareeha leaned forward. ‘Shimada’ was the fog of a memory to her, a whispered name that meant little beyond the symbolism it had now come to represent. “Why though?”

Zarya made a crude gesture again. “Greed? Hell if I know. Three families yes, but even if there were tensions, each faction kept mostly to their own. Maybe they thought they deserved more. Maybe they thought the Zieglers were an easy target.”

Smoke whooshed out between her lips.

“They were wrong. Their mistake was in not offing the daughter, too. They let Angela Ziegler walk away because they thought her broken, but they underestimated everything about that woman. Less than a week after the Ziegler mafia was thought dead, she stepped forward.”

When there was a pause, Fareeha tried to prompt more. “And?”

“It was bad.” Zarya was never one to mince her words, and her face was a stone as her gaze looked into the distance, remembering. “There were more concrete shoes made in the next month than in the entire last decade. Police were pulling up the bodies from the bottom of the river like fish. The streets were a bloodbath. Ana pulled back most of her operations to focus on just protecting her own assets while Ziegler exacted open warfare on the Shimadas.”

“And then?”

That earned a shrug. “And then what everyone knows. She’s called the Angel of Death for a reason...because at the end of it, death was the only mercy she granted the Shimada brothers and anyone associated with them. Your mother may be ambitious, but she’s not stupid either, Fareeha. The legacy of the Shimadas has been what has kept peace between Amari and Ziegler since, even if things have become strained in the last few years.”

In the end, it was not much more than what Fareeha already knew, but to hear it from the lips of a trusted friend was different. It did well as a reminder to herself that her boss was indeed the Angel of Death, and not to forget that in the future.

How the Shimada brothers had underestimated Angela Ziegler, indeed.

“Speaking of your mother,” began Zarya, and Fareeha looked up sharply. “...she has...not been herself lately. She’s been calling back the highest level operators to base...again.”

Fareeha froze at the carefully phrased comment—thinking again of the fact that it was Zarya who had come out to meet, not Ana as expected—then had to remind herself to continue breathing. She took a deep drag from her cigarette, until the butt burned down to practically nothing. “She...do you think she’s planning a purge?”

Fareeha exhaled smoke shakily as she asked the question, and then pushed her spent cigarette into the ash tray. She had still been too young during that first time her mother had purged the ranks of her crime syndicate, too young to understand just what was going on, just why her mother and the fuzzy memory of her father were suddenly at tense odds, and too young to comprehend just why he had suddenly disappeared like so many other of her mother’s compatriots.

“I don’t know...truly. But I’ve never seen Ana play her cards this close to herself before. And the few older generation who were around from the last time, well…” Zarya shook her head, and Fareeha did not miss the slight tremor in her hand as she reached for her vodka. She’d never seen Zarya like that before, even when they were both in Chechnya. Shit. “The lieutenants are nervous, and there’s chatter. I don’t like it. The air stinks of fear, yes?”

Uncertainty. There was nothing in the underworld so dangerous as that one word. In the world of daylight and functioning society that normal people operated under, it was the rule of law that created order and reliability. But in the mafia, uncertainty was deadly. There was no law or protection to fall back on as soon as the leadership and loyalty within your own faction wavered.

If things really were buzzing as much as what Zarya indicated, then it was bad. But what could Fareeha do? She was tied down with her mother’s orders to bodyguard Angela.

Her racing thoughts were cut off Zarya stood, finishing her vodka before reaching into her coat pocket and offering Fareeha something small and gleaming in her palm.

“What’s this?” Fareeha picked up what she now realized was a SIM card, holding it between her forefinger and thumb.

Zarya met her eye and nodded once. “That’s from Sombra.”

Fareeha heard what wasn’t being said. _Not from Ana_. Sombra was one of her mother’s primary cyberhackers, whose allegiances had been more than varied before Ana pulled her into the organization. She also wasn’t someone Ana trusted so much as to let out of her sights.

“It’s encrypted and secure. Use that if you need to privately get in contact with me.”

Again, with Zarya, _not Ana_. The hair on the back of Fareeha’s neck stood on end. She already had more than enough on her plate just with being part of this strange game between her mother and Angela. The last thing she needed was to get involved in even deeper politics with her mother. If her father hadn’t been safe even being married to Ana…

Fareeha opened her mouth and started trying to hand the SIM card back, but Zarya’s large hands cupped around hers, encouraging her to hold onto it.

“I’m not saying anything, my friend. This means nothing right now. But hold onto it.”

When Fareeha didn’t immediately protest, Zarya nodded once, looking a bit more relaxed. Then she tipped back the last bit of vodka, and nodded again to Fareeha.

“Take care, Fareeha. And good luck with your Angel of Death.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I actually got a chapter out while still working on my dissertation! Thank you to all the support and understanding I've gotten so far. Your comments have meant the world to me. I hope you all enjoy this chapter--let me know what you think :)
> 
> Cheers!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Fareeha’s line of business, there is no such thing resting easy.

The Saturday had been a quiet one thus far, spent largely at the race track, watching iterations of horses pound through the dirt. Not that there was anything wrong with that. Fareeha rather enjoyed watching the horses go by. She was only mildly the wiser in terms of understanding just what made the best horses the best (beyond the obvious of winning), but there was something relaxing about watching the powerful animals push the physical limits of speed and stamina, leaving clouds of dust in their wake.

Angela Ziegler had spent most of the afternoon lounging in her private box, even though two of her horses had already won their respective races. Fareeha had quickly learned that she and the other bodyguards in the box office were allowed a certain measure of relaxation themselves: partaking from some of the hors d'oeuvres when Angela would signal the waiters toward them.

Not that it was all fun and games.

The mayor had dropped in (of course by Angela’s invitation) for one of the earlier races, for which Fareeha and the other guards made sure to keep on their most polished of toes. Fareeha thought that had gone smoothly, even though the mayor had stared for a _very_ long moment at her face when he had first been escorted in, no doubt entirely aware of just who she was based on her _wadjet_ alone.

Still, he had deferred on the issue, and Angela seemed well-enough pleased when he took his leave from the box.

Fareeha came over at Angela’s command for more scotch, grabbing the ice bucket and the top label bottle of Glenlivit. Angela seemed to speak absentmindedly as Fareeha replaced the ice cube into her crystal glass and poured a generous two fingers of alcohol over it.

“Alain’s Pace should have another good race next. The mare that carried him is still young enough for another, and I’m in talks with a breeder from out west who seems willing to send some of his prized racing stallion’s…”

Fareeha half listened, her eyes pinned outside the window and on the horses as they paraded by the stands and toward the starting boxes. She knew now that Alain was the name of Angela’s dead brother, the young man who was supposed to have inherited the Ziegler family ‘business’. How different would things have been if he had actually been given that chance, and if the woman sitting just an arm's length away from Fareeha had instead pursued her medical career as desired. No point in pondering the what if’s, though. It was a luxury people like them were never afforded.

A risked glance toward her boss revealed to Fareeha a rare and carefree smile on Angela’s face as she, too, trained her gaze on the horses. This, at least, was something that the most feared woman in the city unquestioningly enjoyed.

And Fareeha was beginning to understand why.

True to the prediction, Alain’s Pace won the race comfortably, and the jockey waved one fist into the air as he canted his sweat-lathered stallion around the track in a victory lap.

Angela expelled a lungful of cigar smoke, a bare, throaty touch of a laugh leaving her. Clearly she was pleased, even if unsurprised. “Not his best, but close to it.”

Fareeha nodded as she knew she was supposed to, waiting to see if her boss was making any moves to join the victory circle. Sometimes Dr. Ziegler did so, but only on occasion.

As if reading her mind, Angela spoke again, pushing the last of her spent cigar into the crystal ashtray. “Not so important of a race to show before the masses today, Fareeha. And I’m sure the kitchen is already whipping up something delectable at home today. Count yourself lucky...the horse racing has put me in a good enough mood that I think I’ll have your company for dinner as well tonight.”

Fareeha suppressed her own urge to both grin and roll her eyes. Angela took her meals in solitary most times, or only called in Fareeha for briefings. But on occasion when she was seemingly more upbeat, she would allow Fareeha a place at the ridiculously ornate and oversized dining room table.

Not that Fareeha was about to complain about the high end dining that she would get to enjoy by having dinner with her boss.

So she nodded as demurely as possibly, sure that Angela was still probably aware of her amusement. Still, she didn’t press an admonishment as Fareeha helped her into her overcoat. Fareeha then escorted Angela through the quiet halls of the VIP section, down the stairs and toward the driveway where Simon would be arriving shortly with the car.

It was cool outside, and Fareeha took a moment to readjust her own suit jacket a hair tighter against her body and the wind. The sun was already dipping into the western horizon, and the crowds of people were beginning to disperse out of the race track stadium.

Time to go back to the Ziegler residence, have a good dinner, maybe kick up her feet and have a warm bath and a drink if Angela was done for the day with her. Maybe some of the guys would be up for a night on the town...

“Ziegler!”

The yell cut through the air, and something about the high-pitched tone and the way the name was said made the small hairs on Fareeha’s arms and the back of her neck stand on end. Their entire small entourage turned as one, and Fareeha saw in her peripheral how Angela’s lips were already twisted downward into the sort of frown that made anyone with common sense want to run in the opposite direction. _No_ one spoke to Dr. Angela Ziegler like that. Just who…?

A man was pushing through the crowds, against the flow of people moving out toward their cars. Moving toward them. People frowned as he pushed through, but it wasn’t until he reached into his coat that the alarm bells started ringing in Fareeha’s head.

She barely even heard what the man was yelling now that he was clear of the crowds. “—pay for what you’ve—”

“ _Gun!_ ”

Fareeha was moving before there was even time to think about it, slamming into Angela—into her charge—and knocking both of them into the ground as the oh-so distinctive sound of gunfire cracked through the air like fireworks.

A line of liquid fire scored across her side, but years of training and experience held through, and adrenaline pushed the pain into the back of her mind.

She pushed herself up from the hard asphalt—from off of Angela—taking only the barest of seconds to scan her boss and be sure that yes, Angela was whole and unharmed besides whatever bumps and bruises she had sustained from her aided journey to the ground. Then Fareeha was already whirling in a crouch, drawing her handgun while simultaneously shielding Angela with her body.

The other bodyguard with her had already drawn his gun and was shooting back as mass panic ensued, crowds of people screaming and stampeding away from them. Fareeha watched as the assailant dropped like a stone from the precisely aimed bullets that pierced him. Then there was the screeching of tires as the normally sedate luxury sedan wheeled around to physically block them off from the now downed would-be murderer.

Fareeha didn’t need anyone to tell her what to do.

She ripped open the back passenger door, and then turned her focus to Angela, pausing only to help her boss up onto her feet.

“In the car!” Fareeha yelled it harshly, glad only that Angela made no attempts to argue with her, and that she moved swiftly if a bit shakily.

Fareeha glanced over the scene again, already hearing sirens in the distance, and then shoved herself into the car after Angela. The other bodyguard had taken the front seat next to Simon, who was craning around the driver’s seat with a concerned but serious gaze.

Angela was breathing heavily, still clearly a bit shocked, and so Fareeha stepped in. There was no time for waiting.

“Simon! Back to the house, and stat. Fuck, this is gonna be a mess to clean up with the cops. Fuck.”

For once there was no reprimand from Angela for the lapse in language, but the cursing did seem to rouse her boss back to her normal self, who immediately spared a sharp glance at Fareeha before finally speaking up.

She leaned forward toward the front of the car, face dark. “Start making the phone calls now. I don’t want this in the papers at all, and I don’t want the police getting their hands deep in this either. I can plan to speak with the police commissioner once we get back home. I want names and information first, though. Whoever that _man_ was, how he got through, I want a full report to me by tomorrow at the latest.”

Fareeha stopped paying attention as her mind and body alike finally calmed back down...which immediately drew her attention elsewhere. Trying to be as surreptitious as possible while Angela was distracted, Fareeha carefully peeled back her jacket away from her right side.

The normally pristine and bleached white of her shirt was stained a growing and sticky red, testament to the angry wound beneath it. Fareeha dug her fingers into her jacket fabric and stuffed the material against where the wound was, drawing a sharp and dizzying hiss of pain from between her teeth. With adrenaline fading, there was little to shield her mind from the piercingly sharp pain of the wound she was trying to staunch.

“You were shot.”

In a second, the interior of the car went utterly still and quiet, at odds with the landscape to the side of the road that now blurred past them.

So much for subtlety.

Fareeha closed her eyes for a moment, gathering a painful breath before looking up. She managed a sardonic grin, tasting faint iron from where she had bitten down too hard on her lip a moment earlier. “Don’t worry, boss. Doing my best to keep from bleeding on your nice leather seats.”

In an instant, Angela was hovering over her, blue eyes flashing with a terrifying intensity of thought. “Shut up.”

Fareeha stopped breathing for a moment out of fear. Maybe she shouldn’t have joked about the leather seats. But then she sucked in a pained breath when Angela’s hand pushed hers out of the way to gently prod at the wound.

Even that cautious investigation made Fareeha reel. Sure, the bullet had only gone through muscle, had skimmed through her side rather than puncturing her abdomen directly, but even so…

She blinked hard, and the car interior came back into focus. Angela was now holding the fabric in pressure over the weeping gunshot wound.

“Hospital…” Fareeha gritted it through her teeth, more of a statement than a request.

“Shut up, Fareeha.” Angela repeated herself, but her voice was lower this time, quieter, if no less firm. The hand that was pressed over her wound applied the slightest bit of more force, and Fareeha bit her tongue on any more words. Instead she closed her eyes again, trying her damnedest to control her hitched breathing. She had taken a bullet once before in the midst of a firefight, and a worse one at that. She just needed to try not to think about each jolt of the car and how it made the pain spike just as she thought she had it under control.

Then suddenly the car was slowing to a stop, and Fareeha snapped her eyes open when Angela released the staunching pressure from her wound. The doors on the car were opening, Angela stepping out and her voice firmly but rapidly giving directions to the butler, who already had the French doors propped open and was looking as attentive and unphased as ever by the prospect of a bleeding bodyguard being brought into his household.

“Simon.” Angela uttered the command, and Simon was at Fareeha’s side immediately, lifting her up and into his arms before she could even say anything.

“Fucking!” she hissed, equal parts pain and embarrassment. “Can walk my fucking self!”

“ _Language_!” Angela’s reprimand was no less sharp than usual as she turned from the butler. “Second spare room in the east wing.”

Then Simon was moving, strangely careful not to jostle Fareeha as he carried her down the hallways, and into one of the unoccupied guest bedrooms. The butler was already ahead of them, laying down clean and white linens and towels onto the bed. Once he was finished, Simon deposited Fareeha on it a moment later.

“Jacket.”

Fareeha peeled off the ruined garment with a wince as soon as Angela uttered the word. Once she had tossed it aside, Angela was by her again, wearing long, nitrile gloves and a medical facemask. The butler had pushed up a rolling tray that was now filled with various medical supplies and instruments.

Fareeha laid back down fully onto the towels when her boss gestured for her to do so.

“You’re lucky.” Angela’s voice was muffled through the mask she was wearing. “If the bullet had been an inch further in and punctured your abdominal wall, then you’d be in the O.R. and completely under right now...and be looking at a stay in the hospital for certain along with a heavy IV drip of antibiotics to keep your abdominal cavity from severe secondary infection.”

Sure, whatever all that meant.

Angela moved as she worked, efficiently and fluidly, and for a moment she was not a mafiosa anymore, but a sure and certain emergency room surgeon. A pair of paramedic scissors was in her gloved hands, and she cut open Fareeha’s designer shirt without even blinking. Fareeha only winced when the fabric had to be peeled off from her skin and the congealed blood around her injury.

Angela reached for something else on the tray once the bullet wound was cleared of fabric, and then paused for a moment, eyebrows furrowed just the slightest bit. “This may hurt, but I have to disinfect the skin before I can inject the localized anesthetic.”

A moment later, Fareeha gasping, eyes watering fiercely and her fingers digging into the towels below her as discipline was all that kept her in place from the burn of disinfectant that still leaked into her open and gaping injury.

“Easy,” murmured Angela, barely sparing Fareeha’s now sweating face a glance. She tossed aside a bloodied cotton ball and picked up a syringe filled with a clear liquid. “Give this a minute or so and then I can take care of the rest.”

Fareeha closed her eyes, barely feeling the pinch of the syringe into her skin. She wasn’t sure how long she had kept them closed before her boss spoke again. “Now we can actually start.”

She reopened her eyes to see that Angela had a needle and medical thread in hand. Her stomach did an odd sort of flip as she watched the needle being pushed in and out of her unfeeling skin, seeing but not feeling it as the wound was systematically sewn shut.

“If you vomit, I’m going to be cross with you.”

“I’m not weak in the stomach,” Fareeha protested automatically, swallowing back the dizziness but refusing to look away from the oddly mesmerizing process.

Finally, the wound was closed, a scrawl of black, synthetic thread stemming off the last of the bleeding.

Angela straightened, first removing her blood-covered nitrile gloves before pulling down the medical mask and disposing of that too. She grabbed something else from the tray, and then offered out a small glass of water and two pills to Fareeha, one a solid white and the other a translucent blue.

“Antibiotics.”

Fareeha accepted both and washed them down with the glass of water.

Meanwhile, Angela wetted a towel with warm, soapy water, and slowly cleaned off the dried blood from the surrounding skin of Fareeha’s newly stitched bullet wound. Fareeha allowed her eyes to drift closed during the process. She supposed there were perks to having a boss who was also a trained doctor, though she wasn’t sure what her mother’s reaction was going to be over taking a bullet for Ziegler. She honestly hadn’t even thought about it in the moment. There was a threat, and her job was first and foremost to protect. And well...Ana _had_ told her to do whatever was needed to gain Ziegler’s trust as her bodyguard. If taking a bullet wasn’t proof enough of loyalty...

She cracked her eyes back open when a dry towel gently patted off any residue of water and blood from her torso. Angela was hovering over her, staring pensively down at the stitches, her fingertips trailing over the numbed skin that was around the angry-looking injury. For a second, Fareeha was very aware that she was only in her bra and pants, and her heart thudded a low, booming rhythm in her ears.

She blinked, and then Angela was standing, moving toward the door as she spoke. “I admit to being out of regular practice, but it’s not a bad job, and the scar shouldn’t be terrible as long as you treat it properly.”

The single raised eyebrow indicated that Angela already planned to ensure that Fareeha treated it properly.

Fareeha tried to sit up, but her arms suddenly seemed unable to support her own weight, and she flailed uselessly before sinking back down into the blood-stained towels. Suddenly the two different pills made sense.

“You dosed me,” she slurred, eyes already growing too heavy to keep open. The last thing she managed to see was an amused but surprisingly gentle smile from Angela as she stood by the door.

“Of course I dosed you. You might think to thank me instead of protesting. Rest is critical if you’re to recover. You’ve done enough, Fareeha Amari. Now sleep, and be assured I’ll handle the rest.” Angela’s eyes went hard and far away, a silent promise of retribution.

But Fareeha could think little more of it. Her heavy eyelids finished closing, and she fell into a dark and dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Thank you for patience in waiting for updates. Life has gotten even busier than I expected! Thought I'm now Dr. Logos, PhD, finishing up school also meant getting a job and moving for said job, which has largely occupied my time along with getting used to my new and busy work routine. I do very much intend to finish this story, but I'm still getting into a normal routine with daily life in general right now.
> 
> Comments and feedback are always appreciated. Cheers and thank you per usual for reading!
> 
> ~Logos


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Fareeha recovers from her injury, she contemplates just where things stand for her: both with her boss, and her mother.

Fareeha sat under the shade of the small, white gazebo in the palatial ‘backyard’ of the Ziegler residence, watching several sparrow-sized, colorful birds wash themselves in the crystal clear water of a nearby bird bath. They chirped loudly at one another, completely unbothered by Fareeha’s statuesque form as she studied them. She didn’t really know much about birds beyond the obvious: they had feathers and beaks, they flew; these were birds of the small and cute variety, not raptors like hawks or eagles.

In the better portion of the last week, Fareeha had had far too much time on her hands to watch the birds. She had been rather firmly condemned by her boss to a week of ‘rest and recovery’ for her bullet wound. Never mind that fact that she already felt back up to speed. The wound hadn’t been a terrible one, and Angela’s care for it had been—Fareeha had to admit—exemplary.

Even if she was still irritated about getting drugged so easily.

Fareeha had slept quite a lot for the first two days, but now she was restless. She didn’t want an extended vacation; she wanted in on the action, because she _knew_ after what had happened at the race tracks, there was action. No one made an assassination attempt on a mob boss without there being serious repercussions.

She had tried asking Angela, tried her best to wheedle and convince, but Angela had been firm and unyielding. And the one time she had actually said anything regarding the now past incident...

 _“It’s been taken care of_.”

That was it, and the way Angela had spoken it—with an eerily unnatural calmness to her voice and face—had made the small hairs on the back of Fareeha’s neck stand on end. She hadn’t pressed the issue after that.

Except now the boredom was likely to kill her.

There was only so much bird watching she could do during the day, and while the Ziegler residence was a veritable mansion, there was also only so much entertainment to be had when practically confined to house arrest.

“Ms. Amari.”

Fareeha jerked her head up as one of Angela’s guards approached her by himself, no sign of the boss in tow.

“Dr. Ziegler will see you in the guest wing now. She wants to check on your stitches.”

At least this was something. Angela had even hinted that if the wound was continuing to heal well, she might remove the stiches today. Fareeha bounded upright, ignoring the way said stitches pulled in mild pain.

“Let’s go then.”

Angela was waiting for them in one of the guest rooms, a stainless steel tray with some medical implements next to the chair where she sat, her hands already in latex gloves. She pointed with one hand to the edge of the bed.

“Sit. And get your shirt out of the way.”

Fareeha did as commanded, hopping onto the edge of the bed and undoing the buttons of her loose, silk shirt until she could shrug it off completely, leaving her in a sports bra.

Even with all the prescribed rest that Angela had insisted on for recovery, Fareeha was hardly concerned about her appearances. In Fareeha’s line of work, both first looks and apparent functionality could very well on occasion be the difference between a peaceful deal and someone going violent; and Fareeha had always been certain to adhere to that principle. She put just as much work into maintaining her image as she was certain Angela did, even if what they projected was different.

So she knew with complete certainty that despite being given a week’s worth of rest, her abs were still well-defined, showing off a six-pack with an ease that belied just how many years of unrelenting work had gone into forming and maintaining them. She knew despite her habits of drinking and smoking, her body was in enviable physical condition. She knew from experience the look of want and desire from other women when a night of drinking turned into something else, when her shirt was first unbuttoned and peeled off to show what lay beneath.

This was no such instance, but because Fareeha was alert and undrugged—and because she was looking for it this time—she was able to catch and recognize that brief but familiar look of hunger in her boss’s eyes, fleeting though it was.

Then it was all business.

“This is looking very good, if I do compliment my own work. I can remove the stitches now, so keep still.”

After the first few times Angela had examined the recovering bullet wound, Fareeha had quickly learned that her boss did not like to deal with a chatty patient of any sort. So instead Fareeha remained both still and quiet, and instead watched as Angela worked with a professional ease, despite being so long out of medical practice.

She recalled, idly, that in all her time spent bodyguarding thus far, she had never heard of nor seen Angela intimate with another person. No one had ever been brought home. No one had ever visited, had ever been taken out to dinner. Angela Ziegler appeared all business at all hours, even within her own home and in her own personal sphere of life. Was Fareeha misjudging what her gut was telling her? Not for the first time, she thought back to the unexpected midnight conversation in the privacy of Angela’s study.

How many years since her brother Alain had been murdered? And just how many years had Angela chosen to be alone?

Fareeha blinked when Angela clearly repeated herself, now sounding annoyed.

“I said, all done. Unless you want me to replace them with new stitches?”

 _That_ made Fareeha sit ramrod straight. “No, ma’am.”

Angela smiled in amusement, the irritation easing away. “Good, since I know you would hate to be denied your small pleasures in life for any longer.”

Fareeha was about to ask just what that meant, when her boss silently answered by walking over to a decorative table and pouring not one, but two crystal tumblers full of scotch.

“Here. And cheers.”

The glass was eagerly accepted, and Fareeha clinked her tumbler against Angela’s before letting the liquid gold slide down her throat. She closed her eyes and savored it, letting out a deliberately inappropriate-sounding moan.

“That good of a time, then?”

Fareeha cracked one eye open, and seeing that Angela was in a good mood, teased back. “If only you knew.”

“Oh, but I think I do.” Angela took a sip of her own, and then shrugged instead. “Calls for a cigar.”

Fareeha almost snorted, but gladly accepted a cigar of her own when offered, lighting hers tip to tip from Angela’s already embering tobacco. They stayed there for a long moment in content silence, smoking and drinking, until Angela spoke.

“There’s a bit of a tradition among my ranks that may tickle your fancy.” She took a deep drag from her cigar, and Fareeha raised her eyebrows back to indicate her interest.

“Oh?”

Angela set down her tumbler, and reached out to trace her index finger over some of the more colorful inkings bared on Fareeha’s shoulders, her lips twisting in a smirk. “I believe they like to call it ‘getting your angel’s wings’. Getting tattooed with wings, supposedly as a mark for the highest levels of proven loyalty to the family.”

Fareeha suddenly recalled both Junkrat and Roadhog had some variation of wing tattoos on them, and that she had seen similar on other members—from thugs all the way up to bodyguards—ranging in all manner of shapes and sizes.

“Hardly a policy I enforce or promote—I’m sure there are loan sharks I employ who fancy themselves so loyal as to deserve their own pair of wings. But…”

“But?”

The smirk faded away as Angela studied what was visible of Fareeha’s First Nations tattoos, her gaze becoming more academic and inquisitive. “I know already that your are not averse to tattoos. As for loyalty....”

Angela’s eyes returned to Fareeha’s, and she stood, finishing the rest of her drink. She turned to leave, pausing only to utter one last thing.

... _are you loyal to me?_

The question, one that Angela had uttered so, so many times to Fareeha, stood unspoken between them.

“I’d already planned on you not being ready to return to work until after this weekend. Consider the next three days as your personal time to do as you need, such as visiting your mother. I’m sure she has has been worried, after all.”

And then Angela took her leave.

* * *

The next day found Fareeha pulling her motorcycle up in front of one of her mother’s main headquarter buildings in the city. Much to her surprise, when she had tried to get in contact with her mother earlier to give a status update, Ana had passed along a summons for Fareeha to come speak with her in person. It had been months since Fareeha had last seen her mother face to face—before, in fact, Fareeha had started her ‘job’ working for Angela Ziegler.

She supposed taking a bullet did warrant some of her mother’s actual concern to ensure she was safe. Fareeha just hoped that Ana wasn’t totally furious about it (or the fact that Angela had kept Fareeha to herself for the last week since the incident), lest it jeopardize everything Fareeha had managed to accomplish so far.

Once her bike was parked, Fareeha removed her sunglasses and tucked them into her leather jacket (which felt damnably good to wear again, for once). She walked past several security cameras, and then came to the iron-doored, back alley entrance to the building, the gateway to the actual operations of the Amari faction. Once she knocked and stated her name, an eye slot slid open, though she couldn’t see just who it was confirming her identity, and then the door opened to reveal at least two guns aimed her way.

“Come in and surrender your weapons. There’ll be a pat down to make sure you give us all of them before you see Amari, got it?”

More than a bit taken aback by the high security response, Fareeha calmly surrendered her gun and the three knives that were hidden on her person, and then submitted to the pat down, brow furrowed and jaw gritted. Her mind warned her against protesting—she didn’t even recognize any of the guards, and her mother never made mistakes in orders. If she hadn’t specified that her own daughter was exempt from this security routine, then that was going to be the reality, and protesting would only earn Ana’s ire.

God, but she’d only been back in Amari headquarters for all of a few minutes and Fareeha already wanted to leave. It was all starting to paint itself as a stark reminder of just what she _had_ actually been glad to get away from while being forced to work for Angela instead of Ana.

But now…

The pat down finished, and then she was directed to an armed escort of four gruff and unforgiving-looking men. It wasn’t the polished and discreet world of Dr. Angela Ziegler, where guards posed in Armani suits, their guns well hidden beneath flawless tailoring. This was back to Ana Amari’s world, where bodyguards worked in torn jeans and cut-off tees, crudely baring muscle and tattoo as they holstered assault rifles over their shoulders.

After all these months with Ziegler, it was unsettling.

Yet it was also like coming home. This was the world she had been born into, and no amount of time spent playing in custom-tailored suits and dining from a personal chef could change that. Nothing could change just who she was, even if she had allowed herself to forget it for a bit. There was no forgetting this anymore.

Particularly considering the unusually excessive security clearance, not to mention the fact that she didn’t even recognize any of the grunts escorting her to Ana.

Fareeha remembered when she had last met with Zarya, and the seed of unease in her stomach that she had been ignoring only grew. There was no time to think on it, though, as they had arrived at the door to Ana’s private office.

This, too, was different than Fareeha recalled, now steel-reinforced and double-barred. There were even more guards flanking the entrance, and they nodded curtly once before motioning to a security camera overhead.

“Fareeha Amari’s here as you requested, ma’am.”

A moment later, Ana’s voice came in over speaker. “Send her in. Alone.”

There was a beep, and then the door slide open automatically. Fareeha stepped through and it swished shut behind her, leaving her alone with the head of the Amari underworld family.

For her part, Ana didn’t look any different. Her hair was still the same shade of gray. She still sat behind the same desk, still glared across it with the same one eye.

There were some things about ‘home’, Fareeha thought bitterly, that she never really missed.

“Mother.” Fareeha bowed her head, as she knew was expected of her, then straightened and waited.

Ana gave her a critical once-over. “Well you look fine enough, no matter what reports I was getting from the Angel of Death.”

Fareeha began reaching for the hem of her shirt, eager to show that was healed and well, but Ana waved her down in an instant.

“Oh, just sit already. You’re alive, aren’t you?”

Fareeha struggled for words as she sat. She hated how her mother always seemed to throw her off like this. Disregard when she expected interest and care, and pointed micromanaging when Fareeha needed the freedom to actually work.

“I mean, it was a shot, even if the bullet grazed—”

“And you’re fine. Of course you’re fine. I knew you wouldn’t die from one deranged idiot...and you did an even better job than I expected with it in managing to convince the Angel of Death of your loyalty to her, I have to admit—at least if the reports I’ve been getting mean anything. Personally sewing you up herself, eh? Never thought I’d see the day that cold-blooded ‘doctor’ would actually use her skill to save someone instead of putting them down, hah!”

Ana fixed Fareeha with her one good eye as she laughed at her own morbid joke, and Fareeha had to blink twice, processing just what had been said, and what hadn’t.

Wait.

 _Wait_.

Shock made her mute, but where months earlier the anger that immediately followed would have bled words from her unthinking mouth, now Fareeha’s mind held back with wary caution. Instead she held her tongue, mind already running a million miles an hour. Her mother had _sent_ the would-be killer, had deliberately armed and targeted Angela, specifically to put Fareeha in the line of danger, all for the sake of trying to get ahead in this political game. Fareeha reeled from the implications.

Her mother expected her to say _something_ , though. She was clearly waiting for a response.

Fareeha wetted her lips with her tongue, using everything she had learned during her time with Angela to mask her racing thoughts, knowing that Ana was watching her every move. She let just enough slip through to make her incredulity believable, even if it wasn’t the full picture as to why.

“You _sent_ him? Don’t you think that was...well...risky? What if he gets traced back to you? What if Ziegler realizes how you played her?”

Ana leaned back into her seat, giving an easy smile of superiority. “You think me that inept, _habibti_? Hardly. You should know dead men tell no tales, and he was imbalanced to begin with. Lost his son in the gang wars years back to the Ziegler family and forever held a grudge after the fact. Nothing is left to trace any information back to the Amaris.”

Ana stopped, leaning forward again, her face taking on the less than forgiving look that had made Fareeha shudder when she was a child and it was directed at her. “Besides, things were moving too slowly, I think. She’s brought you into her inner circle practically. I expect you to make something of it. Start collecting the deep information. Figure out everything you can about her, about her operations. Figure out her weaknesses. Now that she thinks you’ve truly put your life in her hands, it will give me the advantage.”

Not ‘us’, but ‘me’. Always Ana. Always about her.

Fareeha nodded, knowing that, too, was expected. “Yes, mother. I’ll start to dig.”

“Good.”

When Ana said nothing else, Fareeha tentatively prodded. “Is that all? How are things with operations here? I’d heard you were recalling some of your lieutenants in, and security seems tighter than usual. Won’t that hurt our overseas work?”

Instantly, Ana’s face grew guarded, fierce, and Fareeha swallowed. “Keep focused on your task at hand, Fareeha. The only reason I even allowed you to come here is because that’s what the Angel of Death expected. So you just focus on her and leave the managing of _my_ business to me. That’s all I you need to do. And that’s what I’m commanding of you.”

End story.

“You may go. I don’t want you spending too much time here, even if the Angel of Death allowed it for today.”

And with that Fareeha was dismissed. No explanations, no inquiries about her health or life. Nothing. Ana Amari’s daughter or not, she was treated no differently than a grunt, even when she was the supposed heir to the family. Fareeha stood and bowed her head one last time, then left the office, escorted by yet another, different group of armed guards. As she was walked down the hallways, she caught sight of Zarya off to the side.

Her old friend showed no overt signs of recognition or cheer, and her lips were drawn into a tight, pale line when she deliberately made eye contact with Fareeha for a fleeting second. Had things really gotten than bad?

Clearly, this was not the right forum to pursue that question.

Fareeha left her mother’s building, the commands she was given still echoing in her head, but accompanied now by chorus of disbelieving and unanswered questions. The most prominent of them seemed to dance in front of her vision as she hopped back on her motorcycle: how could her own mother have knowingly armed and sent someone against her?

In a slight daze, Fareeha stopped at a coffee shop on the way back, and as she waited for her latte to be made, she pulled out one of her burner phones, and then carefully inserted the sim card that Zarya had given her weeks ago.

Her phone lit up once she hit the power button, loading into a home screen with nothing but a single, unfamiliar contact number.

Fareeha’s fingers hovered over the keypad. She ran through everything that had happened, everything that she knew so far, everything that she had no idea about...the risks, the rewards...but the _risks_.

Just as her name was called for her coffee, she punched in a single, short text message.

_We need to talk._

She hit send, and then turned off the phone and removed the sim card, throwing it in the trash on her way out the door. She couldn’t take any risks now that she had used it. Just by sending the text alone, she had started something in motion, and if Ana found out…

Fareeha shuddered even as she sipped her hot beverage. She couldn’t risk anything being tracked back to her.

Besides, she had no doubts that Sombra would be in touch. It was only a matter of time.

* * *

Thunder boomed outside, cutting through the constant drumming of rain that hammered against the windows and roof, and briefly flashing bright light through the heavy curtains and blinds. It was approaching midnight, and Fareeha was comfortably lounging on her bed, reading one of the many, many books now made available to her from the Ziegler personal library. She wasn’t normally one for reading, but the habit had been struck up during her recovery, and given the storm blowing over and the tedium of the night, she found herself reverting to it. After all, she wasn’t officially back on the job yet.

Another brilliant flash of light lit up the world outside the window, and Fareeha braced herself for the thunderous roar that shortly followed.

The electric lights flickered questionably, but then steadied.

Fareeha held her breath, then slowly exhaled and returned to her reading.

Two seconds later the power died.

This time Fareeha waited in the darkness for a solid ten seconds before resigning herself to the fact that her reading was well and truly over for the evening. She set the book aside, reaching for her phone to check it before bed, before her thought process kicked back into force.

She _should_ probably go check on, you know, her boss.

“Fuck,” she groaned, sighing as she forced herself upright. The storm had now qualified as a nuisance.

Protocol meant she needed to be ready for anything.

“Goddammit.”

There were a few more muttered curses as she slipped on a black, silken pajama shirt. She stared at her gun holster, her gun, and a pair of long pants, muttered ‘fuck it’, and then shoved her gun—with the safety on—into the waistband of her boxers before fixing the bare minimum number of buttons required to make sure her top was at least appropriately buttoned closed.

She would probably get a reprimand for sloppiness if Angela even saw her, but she was, quite frankly, tired and cranky at having to get up. If she was lucky, maybe there would be some unfortunate intruder while the power was knocked out and she’d get the chance to put a bullet through his brain while he was baffled by a bodyguard working in boxers.

Doubtful, of course. A storm like this would be keeping everyone off the streets.

With a flashlight in one hand, and the other hovering over her gun, Fareeha left the comfort of her room, padding barefoot into the hallway. She made her way toward Angela’s master bedroom, stopping only once at an intersection of hallways, nearly drawing her gun on the butler.

“Vince!” she slowly released her hand from her gun.

“Oh, good, you’re up. It appears our section of the electrical grid has been knocked out. We have a backup generator, but I need to go actually connect it. Will you check on Dr. Ziegler while I attend to restoring power? Very good.”

Fareeha nodded as they both went separate ways, and she continued to her boss’s quarters.

Once she reached the closed door, she paused for a second, taking in the faint glow of dim light that still spilled out from the threshold gap between the door and the floor. Clearly Angela was awake then.

Fareeha politely rapped on the door twice, and then spoke through it.

“Boss, just checking to make sure you’re good. Vince said the power is out on the block. He’s looking to get an old backup generator started now.”

“I see.” The response was muffled through the wood, but predictably neutral.

Fareeha waited to a silent count of three, and spoke again. “If you need anything, just let me know.”

Just as she was turning to make her way back down the hall, Angela responded, and even if it was muffled, the commanding tone in her voice was clear.

“Come in, Fareeha.”

Well. Now she was definitely going to get a talking to for her less than professional attire.

Fareeha took a deep breath through her nostrils, cursing her own laziness, and then opened the door and stepped through.

She closed the door behind her with as much dignity as she could muster, and then turned to face her boss, turning off her flashlight.

Angela sat on the edge of her bed, the limited light in room provided by several large candles that had been lit on her night table. Her hair, which Fareeha now realized she had only ever seen pinned up in some form or another, was completely down, soft and burnished pale curls that looked perfectly tousled.

A dark, burgundy-colored silk robe looked as though it had only been just shrugged on, a supposition supported by the fact that the thick duvet cover was drawn back from where Angela sat at the edge of her bed. Perhaps she had been asleep, or just settling into it. There was no recently smoked cigar in the crystal ashtray, no half-poured drink either.

Fareeha’s gaze dipped lower for a moment, taking in the barest hints of a lace and satin sleep camisole underneath the v-neck of the robe. Dropping her eyes further still, she was momentarily drawn to the way the silk robe slid off of Angela’s legs, and the sharp contrast of the crimson material against cream-colored skin.

Then she jerked her eyes back up to her boss, who was giving her much the same once over. Slowly, Angela brought her eyes back up to meet Fareeha’s, one slender eyebrow raised in a knowing look that immediately drew an embarrassing heat to Fareeha’s cheeks.

There was a long and drawn out silence, but Fareeha refused to give into the urge to fidget, even as her blush grew worse.

Finally, Angela broke the silence, the smallest of smirks tugging her lips up.

“Come here.”

Fareeha allowed herself only the time to swallow, and then walked the distance from the door to her boss.

“Yes, boss?”

Angela looked up at her, her faint smirk indicating that she was still very much the ‘boss’. Fareeha braced herself for what was surely going to be incoming commentary. One of Angela’s hands drifted up to Fareeha’s waistband, hooking around the elastic closest to her gun.

Fareeha quietly sucked in a breath when Angela’s nails scraped against her hip bone in the same motion.

“Interesting choice in a holster.”

Thank god there was no further commentary...like on her choice of boxers.

Angela’s fingers moved up to deftly wrap around and grip the gun, and Fareeha froze. It violated every gut reaction of hers to allow anyone to just take her weapon, but this was her boss. So she stayed still as stone as her handgun was pulled loose, and Angela inspected it in the dim light provided by the candles.

“I do so detest power outages,” she murmured as she ran her fingers over the barrel of the gun. “Unplanned for annoyances.”

It was not a clear invitation for a response, and so Fareeha studied her boss as she in turn studied the gun. There was another flash of lightning followed the predictable crash of thunder, but there was no telltale involuntary jerk or tightening of fingers that might have indicated a supposed discomfort with storms. No, Angela Ziegler remained as difficult to read as ever, even as she instead turned to look toward her bedroom window.

Yet again, Fareeha wondered at just what level of trust she had managed to gain with her notorious boss. Her mother seemed to think so much of it that she felt it necessary to cement the deal with a life or death situation, something that even now made Fareeha’s blood boil.

And yet…

Even a month ago, would Angela have called Fareeha into the privacy of her bedroom during the dead of night like this? And a month before that, Fareeha had not even been keeping residence here. The heat of embarrassment from moments earlier settled instead into a easy sort of curiosity, mixed with equal parts desire.

There was a loud mechanical whirring, and suddenly the power flickered back into life.

So Vince had managed to get the generator working after all.

“Well then.” Angela straightened. “It appears we will have electricity again after all. Thank you for ensuring all was well, Fareeha.”

That was as much of a dismissal as ever, yet neither of them moved. The gun remained in Angela’s lap, and they continued to stare at each other as time slowed to a crawl.

Fareeha’s brain hurt with all of the thoughts of her mother’s machinations, her seeming lack of regard for Fareeha’s welfare, and the escalating political games between the Ziegler and Amari factions combined with the unknown plans of Angela herself. She was a pawn; Fareeha knew she was a pawn between the two of them.

And yet...

Fuck it.

Fareeha decided to roll the dice.

“You want me.” It wasn’t even a question, just a reckless and foolhardy statement, reflecting exactly as she felt. She was throwing caution to the wind.

“Fareeha—” Angela’s voice dropped, but this time Fareeha could discern the difference between true warning, and the attempt to appear as such.

Recklessness made Fareeha as bold as a drunkard, and she pressed the issue, setting aside her flashlight on the bed.

“You want me, and you told me once before that you chose to become who you are today so that you might always take whatever you want.” Fareeha’s fingers moved to undo the rest of her shirt buttons, letting the garment hang loose. It split to reveal a line of skin from the top of her sternum down to the hollow of her belly button, just beginning to hint at the swell of her breasts, drawing attention to how her nipples now pressed against the silk. There was no room to misinterpret just what sort of ‘want’ she meant. But she was standing, while Angela was sitting, and that wasn’t right.

Fareeha dared to take one more step forward—Angela still did not move—and then dropped to both knees, so that suddenly it was Angela who towered over her instead. 

“So then have me. Take what you want.”

She spoke it half-taunting, almost as much to herself as to Angela, as if to say, _if you dare_.

Something in Angela’s gaze seemed to harden, and the wariness that Fareeha had sensed there moments earlier dissipated entirely, replaced by something else.

Surety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much to say here--things are starting to heat up (in more ways than one EYYYY ;D). Thank you to all of you readers who have been patient and supportive in the break since the last chapter. U DA BEST. But really, thank you. Cheers and I hope you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> Well here you have it! The start of what I refer to as the Pharmercy Mafia AU. A huge shoutout goes to [Risu](http://superrisu.tumblr.com/), who largely inspired all of what I'm hopefully going to write with her vivid drawings and imagination. Please go check her out if you haven't already! I hope you enjoyed the start to this. Cheers and thank you for reading!


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